Don't Fear The Reaper
by Kepouros
Summary: Darren's sister, Adrienne, has made a deal with Crepsley to save her brother's life. She is now a half-vampire with powers that skip like a scratched record, a lust for blood she despises, a teacher that won't let up, and an entirely new life that she doesn't know how to cope with. As her apprenticeship progresses, she finds that something is amiss with her body...and her heart.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so...**

**I should NOT be writing this. I have an extremely popular Expendable fiction to complete, or the fans will storm my castle and behead me on the front lawn, over my kiddie pool. I should NOT be entertaining thoughts of Mr. Crepsley, who hits all my 'daddy issues' buttons. Like I need more of that crap-ola.**

**Repeat: I should NOT be writing this.**

**But I'm going to anyway. :D **

**I love taming brusque characters, and perhaps adopting some of their gruffness for my own use. I am too nice for my own good, really, or so I've been told. **

**Plus, I want to run my fingers through that surprise of orange hair...**

**Huh, what? Oh, sorry, I'm back now. **

**If you review and encourage me, I will only spread the blame. If this thing gets some juice, I'll keep it going.**

**WARNINGS: Occasional swearword, because Crepsley's a badass, and shameless mixing of books and movie elements. Romance, eventually, but only if the story gets some wind under its wings. Even then, it'll be tasteful. Thus, the rating is a high 'T'. Will change to 'M' when romance blooms strong.**

* * *

"Are you twenty-one?" inquires the strangely accented, tall man with the bulbous head.

Darren and I glance at each other, then back at the towering character that is, apparently, the Cirque du Freak's bouncer. My hand tightens on the brightly colored flyer in my pocket.

"Are you both twenty-one?" he repeats himself, eyes urging. Then, in a whisper, "Say yes!"

Again, my baby brother and I exchange glances. "Close enough," I reply, cocking my head endearingly, speaking for both of us.

"Do you have a heart condition, a tendency for panic attacks, or any allergies?" asks the man.

"Does an allergy to stupidity count?" I ask, grinning at the tall man to let him know I don't mean him.

The giant's smile, to my surprise, goes from politely welcoming to genuinely amused. "Tickets?" he continues.

Darren and I produce the small slips of paper, threading them in the tall man's long, bony fingers. With a flick too fast to follow, the tickets disappear. "Right this way," he says with a wide grin. "The show's about to start."

The decrepit, dusty theater is doing my allergies no good. I sneeze into my arm, garnering 'flu season fugly' looks from my fellow audience members as we take two seats in the front row. I swear, it might as well be the Walking Dead universe when the influenza starts to fly.

"This is gonna be awesome," mutters Darren. "Thanks for the ride, Adrienne."

"You got any other sisters?" I snort. "Who else is gonna aid and abet you?" I ask, pocketing my keys with extra care. Things of value tend to vanish in places like this. If the 'eau de crime' outside didn't make me fear for my VW Bug, then the hideous little wrinkled person that sold us our tickets made me fear for my purse. Not that any of that would stop us, of course. "Mom and dad would shit kittens if they knew we were here."

"That's what makes it awesome," Darren replies, grinning. Sixteen years old, and already a joyous rule breaker. I should be proud of the influence I have.

Tilting my head in reluctant ascent, I say, "I admit, getting out from under their thumbs feels pretty epic. Bucking the system, slipping the noose, sticking it to the man, whatever you like to call it."

"Just awesome works. Why you gotta go all 'higher education' on me? We're in public."

"Sorry, bro. My vocabulary is bulemic: it has to vomit to feel good about itself."

"Remind me never to go to college for law," he groans. "It does things to you."

"Oh, come on, you know mom and dad's mantra," I cajol.

As one, we mockingly reiterate the three words that shape our lives, _"College, job, family!"_

"What a shitty lineup," Darren moans, digging in his backpack.

"Watch your mouth," I say automatically. Even if he is right.

"Hypocrite," he declares, offering me a piece of gum.

"I've earned my right, between the 'rents and my credit hour load. Here's to twenty years of biting my tongue," I reply, toasting him with my silver-foiled stick.

"And only a few more."

Leaning back in my chair slightly, I regard the high ceiling and chew. I love spending time with Darren. We get to be both the kids and the grown-ups that mom and dad can't (or refuse, in my case) see. The talks we have, which would be so dire and serious and possibly yell-worthy with them, can be spoken plainly and without fear in each other's presence. I love my brother like my best friend.

In a way, we are just that: best friends. Dermot and Angela Shan adopted me when I was five, and Darren was two. Maybe not being blood family makes it easier to get along.

"I may never get out of here," I murmur. Darren doesn't hear me, but that's okay. I should keep my misgivings about my preset life to myself. Dad and mom are... well, I should say that I'm rapidly approaching the age where the meddling of adults is just that - meddling. I still love mom and dad, but I wish they'd get their grubby hands off my life. I am forced to walk a tedious line between placating them with a law degree and following my dreams to be a folklorist. Thus, I major in law and secretly double-major in folklore.

You might be thinking "That bitch be cray-cray!" Not crazy: just non-confrontational. It's a gift. When your parents gripe the 'my roof, my rules' argument, you'll understand. But see, I can't get a job because of 24 credit hours of school. I can't move out without a job. I can't get a decent job without an education. I can't get an education without somewhere to live. I need to placate my parents with a law degree to have somewhere to live. And the cycle continues...

Ugh, it gets my shoulders tense just thinking about it.

"Two minutes," someone whispers behind me. As if in response, the heavy red curtain on the stage flutters slightly.

"Why didn't Steve want to come?" I ask Darren.

He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable. "Honestly? I think he doesn't like you."

"Well, he'll just have to get over that," I reply primly, crossing my legs. "You know, before he dies."

"He's been my best friend since second grade," Darren reminds me, ever loyal.

"I'm not hating," I assure. "I'm above that, at this age. I just wish he was."

"I think he thinks you cramp our style."

"The juvenile delinquent style? Bro, look where we are right now." I gesture around at the expansive, rundown theater with its tiny, oddly unmatched audience. "I not only lied for us, but I drove us. Who's the scapegoat if we get busted? I'm the epitome of 'cool.'"

Darren chews his gum and smirks. "Yeah - ... no. It loses something when you say it."

Playfully, I shove him. Someone shushes us: a pretty blonde woman on the other side of me.

People around us start to applaud as the curtain parts and some jazzy horn music starts to play. The same tall man from before strides onto the stage and introduces the Cirque du Freak: the longest operating freak show in the western hemisphere. "I am Mr. Tall, your ringmaster."

"The name fits," I approve the symmetry.

Darren hums in response as the lights dim and change color.

I let go of everything and let myself be transported. The implied continuity of the Cirque tickles the lawyer in me, that part of me that adores antiquities and structures that endure, be they word, place, or traditions. The smell of history steeps the place as the first act comes up: two girls called the Twisting Twins.

"I do that every night before bed," I joke as one of the leotarded girls wraps her leg over her neck.

"Don't ruin this for me," Darren implores, oogling.

I roll my eyes. Boys.

The Wolfman freaks me out, pardon the pun. He seems under the control of Mr. Tall, who clicks his tongue and whistles like he's calling a dog. But as the beast's feet thud closer and closer along the front row, and his repugnant smell penetrates my nostrils, I feel myself start to sweat. "Ho, boy," I whisper, closing my eyes tightly and grabbing the edge of my seat. _Please don't eat me, please don't eat me..._

Sure enough, the beast passes me by. I breathe and relax marginally. Suddenly, he takes a bite out of the pretty blonde woman next to me, ripping her arm off below the elbow with a roar. She shrieks convincingly and I gape at her bloody stump, my heart utterly still.

"Remain calm," says Mr. Tall, like he was ordering eggs over-easy. And like a boss, he introduces the blonde as the next act!

"Damn!" I say, applauding wildly and relievedly as her freaking arm grows back, from bones to skin to fingers. "Did_ not_ see that coming!"

Darren is enthralled, same as me.

"The amazing Corma Limbs, ladies and gentlemen! And next, the lovely Madam Truska!"

Two burly men carry in a beautiful lady on a chaise. She stands, and her rack does not change positions. "Do we have someone brave enough to be my assistant," she addresses the crowd in a thick accent. "Who will volunteer?"

Of course, my idiot brother's hand shoots up, along with every man in the audience. _Remind me not to produce testosterone, _I think to myself when Darren is chosen and led to the chaise. I am a ball of hysterical snickers muffled by my hand as she massages his face seductively, then brings his hands to her own cheeks. Darren recoils when her beard starts to bristle under his fingertips.

I'm almost crying with laughter when Darren flops back down into his seat and mutters, "I'm scarred for life."

"Ready for more?" queries Mr. Tall, his voice echoing from the balcony. "Larten Crepsley and Madam Octa!"

A crimson blur flys from backstage, terminating in the form of a red-headed man, resplendent and noble in a tophat and red tailcoat. Abruptly, I stop clapping.

"What is it?" mutters Darren, as the redheaded man sweeps a bow.

My textbooks' pages flash before my eyes. "That guy's a vampire!" I say softly. The eyes of the man on stage momentarily rest on me. _Oh, shit! Did he hear me?! _They're a stunning seagreen color, like a piece of jasper held to the light, and when they narrow suspiciously, they pin me in my seat like a bug on a slide. _Double shit, he totally did!_

"So?" asks Darren. "He's a freak among freaks here."

Swallowing my nerves, I dig my fingers into the cushion of my seat. Darren's right. The damn Folklore minor is messing with me. My idea of normal and abnormal is being redefined tonight. This real-life vampire_ is_ a freak among freaks, like a soda can lined up in a dispenser machine. Why should he elicit this reaction from me, when I just saw a woman grow back her limb and a real, live Wolfman?

Because my textbooks don't mention them: they mention _him._ Suddenly, my lessons on legends have come to very bright and real light. Only fifteen feet from me stands a living myth. Perhaps the stutter of my heart is due to that.

Crepsley the vampire scans the audience, and his voice projects easily and with sardonic power. "Yes, thank you all for taking the night off from your televisions to come to the Cirque du Freak!"

Everyone claps again, with some polite titters of laughter.

"This is my first time visiting this quaint suburban cess pool," continues the vampire with a distinctly sneering air. "But I can already pinpoint the source of your obesity. Here's a hint: it's on every street corner."

"Snarky bastard, ain't he?" I whisper to Darren.

The vampire's eyes land on me, again. I flush, grateful for the shadow of the stage lights.

"I appreciate you visiting the Cirque in lieu of your fastfood restaurants or one of the many, many antique stores your town seems to be known for," says the vampire breezily. "I had hoped to perform my regular act tonight. But my spider, Madam Octa, has gone missing."

My face goes three shades of pale. "Oh, God."

The audience whispers and starts to carefully look around under their feet.

"Awesome!" whispers Darren, looking under his seat excitedly. Little wierdo loves spiders as much as I fear them.

"Is that your word for everything?" I squeak, drawing my legs into my chair. "Check under mine."

"Nothing there," he says smugly. "That's what you get for laughing at me."

"Hand me my purse, please," I beg him, tightly folding my legs up under me.

He hands me the bag, and I sigh in relief when the zippers are all intact. I feel better with it in my lap, shielding me. That purse and I have been through the ringer together.

"In her absence, I will be performing a variety of stunning illusions," declares the vampire. "First, a rabbit from a hat!" He whips the accessory off his head with a flourish.

_I'll withhold judgement of your act on the basis of your stage character, I promise, _I think to myself sarcastically. I gasp when the damn spider pops out of his tophat like a jack-in-the-box.

The vampire gasps theatrically. His eyes find me again, this time, with a mischevious gleam.

_Oh, hell, no - _

The spider goes flying with a flick of his wrist and a faux-startled cry. Seemingly in slow motion, I watch the arachnid sail through the air towards me. I am paralyzed with horror, and turn to veritable stone when Madam Octa lands daintily on my knee.

I can see my own reflection in her eight eyes. All around me, distantly, I hear my fellow audience members shriek and stumble away from me. I swear to God, the spider is _looking _at me. Sentiently!

"Hello," I say timidly. What else can I say to a knowing gaze like that?

One foreleg is raised, but it might just have been a twitch at the sound waves of my voice.

I am pulled out of my Crocodile Hunter moment by a shadow. I come out of my trance to see the vampire standing over me. Darren is dividing his astonished gaze between the myth and his eight-legged pet.

"May I have my spider back, please?" asks the vampire, kneeling before my seat with an open palm. Madam Octa merrily turns to scuttle down my knee and into the vampire's hand.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding as the vampire stands, cupping the arachnid lovingly. "Now, little girl," he addresses me.

Unconsciously, I straighten in my chair, finally meeting that scary seagreen stare. Gulp. He's spooky and dangerous-looking up close.

"If I were a vampire, would it be wise to shoot your mouth off about it? Are vampires not a secretive bunch?"

"N-no," I stutter, flushing and looking down. He's barefoot in contrast to his impeccable clothes, and his feet look tough as leather. "Not wise."

"Indeed," murmurs the vampire. Then he turns on his shoeless heel and centers the stage.

My heart restarts like a cheap Dell computer and I unwind my fingers from my deathgrip on my purse.

"That was so cool!" gushes Darren as the audience dissolves into applause again at the vampire's bow.

Recovering from one of the biggest shocks of my life, I let my stunned psyche focus on the performing vampire and spider. He works his spider like an extension of his body, her webs spinning in the embrace of his arms, between his fingers, over his lips. When he licks the cobwebs off, though, I swear his eyes roam the audience and land on me, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

This is the fourth time he's looked at me. I'm getting the 'you're gonna get murdered' vibes pretty strongly.

"Cobwebs are a delicacy where I come from!" declares the vampire.

I am momentarily stunned by his ability to so stupendously alienate an audience with his words, only to resuscitate them like the drowned with his act. They go wild for him as he exits the stage.

Mr Tall reappears and introduces someone called Ramus Twobellies. Darren gathers his backpack and rises to a half-stand. "Bathroom," he whispers as he edges away from me.

I nod, shaking off the last of my daze, and return my attention to the fanfare being played. My awe compounds as a man with two enormous stomachs thuds onto the stage, and proceeds to eat an absurd amount of food, and an array of inanimate objects.

Several minutes and wince-worthy culinary miracles later, I clap enthusiastically with the audience as Ramus exits the stage, and Darren takes the opportunity to slither back into his seat, clutching his backpack. "Everything come out alright?" I ask him with a shit-eating grin.

"Super," he replies sarcastically.

"Ladies and gentlemen," says Mr. Tall, opening his arms. "I know the reputation of Evra Von, the Snake Boy, preceeds him. But I am afraid that his snake is sick, and cannot perform."

The audience, including myself and Darren, make disappointed or sympathetic noises.

"And so concludes our Cirque! Thank you for joining us for this night of mysticism, magic, and mayhem!"

"What a show," I marvel as Darren and I stream out of the theater and towards the side street where I parked.

"I thought you were going to wet yourself when the spider landed on you," he teases.

"I thought your boner was going to snap off when that beard started to grow," I shoot back. I'm somewhat tense. The vampire had that rape-y look to him, and went out of his way to get close to me. Dark alley? Not helping.

"Ouch," he laughs, sliding into the passenger seat.

Breathing a sigh of relief when I lock the doors and pull away from the curb, I don't even notice he is clutching his backpack with special care.

* * *

How could I have let this happen? (As though I have any say in the workings of fate)

We made it home under curfew without mom and dad being suspicious of our secret fun. All in all, a pleasantly naughty night.

Now I suffer the consequences of my idiotic, senseless deception.

Unbeknownst to me, Darren had stolen the spider belonging to Larten Crepsley. I didn't know Darren had it until after the show, when I had come into his room to wish him goodnight to find him playing with the arachnid.

It had promptly become startled and bitten his face, then disappeared out the open window.

Needless to say, after being rushed to the hospital and thoroughly tested, no positive source of ailment was found for the nasty, puss-filled blister with two fang marks on his cheek. I kept insisting it was a spider, even drew the doctor a picture, but they couldn't find anything that looked remotely like it in a reference book.

My family and I could do nothing but sit on our hands and pray for a miracle.

Now, I am splayed across two uncomfortable, stained chairs in the waiting room: the farthest arm behind my back and the junction of the chairs under my knees. With a Intro to the Crimminal Justice System textbook open before my unseeing eyes, I contemplate telling my parents Dermot and Angela Shan the whole story, but decide that it is not the right time.

My mother is compulsively crocheting in the chair next to my feet, her hands nearly a blur over the vibrant tropical yarn, her eyes similarly sightless. My father paces anxiously over the worn carpet.

My heart fills with worry and grief, not just for my baby bro, but for my poor parents. When Dermot and Angela adopted me at age five, I doubt they had an inkling I might become their only child.

Dad stiffens, turning to face the approaching doctor in his long white coat. "How is he?" he asks, a note of desperation in his voice.

The doctor, whose nametag reads Caraway, is fingering through the results of several tests on an iPad, shaking his head incredulously. "I've never seen anything like it, Mr. Shan. Not in all my years of practice."

"So what _are _you doing?" says my father tightly.

Doctor Caraway looks up at him with sincerety that comes with daily practice. "We're treating his symptoms, and we've got him on a ventillator, but I'm afraid that's all we can do."

"That can't be it," I murmur incredulously, my brain incapable of wrapping around it. "That can't be all. That's my brother! That's Darren! He's a healthy, happy sixteen-year-old boy!"

"Are you telling me a sheepskin means nothing in this day and age?" asks my mother acidly.

"Mom," I say softly, attempting comfort I don't feel, reaching forward to touch her arm.

"Mrs. Shan - "

"It's not good enough!" she nearly shouts, flinging down her yarn and hook, pointing down the hall where my brother's room is. "My little boy is laying comatose in that bed because - ...because - ..." Her throat closes up with tears, and the offending droplets spill onto her cheeks.

"Oh, mom," I croon, tearing up as well. I move over a chair to embrace her comfortingly, while my dad scrubs his face in anguished worry.

"So you're telling us," my father says hoarsely. "That all we can do is watch our son die?"

Doctor Caraway's lips are thin, and his jaw tense. "Not all. You can pray, if you believe that sort of thing." He steps forward and grips my father's shoulder, eyes fairly _bleeding_ remorse. "I'm so sorry. We'll keep you updated on his condition."

"Can we see him?" whispers my mother.

"Please?" I add, imploring the doctor with my tear-streaked face.

The doctor hesitates, then nods. "For a few minutes. He might be contagious, and he's certainly in a delicate state right now. The less exposed he is to germs - " He stops talking as we dash past him, down the hall.

I backtrack only long enough to grab my textbook, flashing Caraway an apologetic smile tinged with urgent grief.

As I jog down the hall, law book in hand, I can hear my mom and dad talking quietly to my brother. Turning into the room, I try to hold back my gasp and fresh flood of tears. My little brother, my best friend, is laying pale and sick and deflated-looking in the hospital bed, with a tube taped into his mouth and more snaking out of his veins and under the blanket. His chest's undulations are timed by a steadily beating machine.

My mother and father are...

I reel bodily and emotionally, my hand coming up to suffocate my overwhelming sob. I almost succeed in choking it back. My mom and dad are laying on either side of my brother, grasping his hands, talking in his ears.

"Hey, my sweet boy," mom murmurs, stroking Darren's unswollen cheek.

My father is fingering back Darren's hair, carefully avoiding the mini-mountain on his face that threads purple burnt-out veins out like the web of the thing that bit him. "You can't die on us, son," says dad soothingly, voice cracking. "You can't. We haven't done your senior year roadtrip yet."

I stumble a step closer, leaning against the edge of the full bed. My throat aches like there's a softball in it, but I manage to put a hand on my brother's blanketed ankle. "Please come back," I whisper. "Who's gonna walk the neighborhood with me after dinner? Who's gonna crash my dates? Who's gonna go in half for that motorcycle? Who's gonna..." I trail off, and this time can't stop the sob from escaping. "I need you, bro. You're my family. You're my best friend. Please..."

There is a knock on the ajar door, and a fat black nurse eyes our distraught family with sorrow. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but Darren should get some rest. You three go on home: we'll call you if there's a change."

My mom sniffles herself somewhat composed, and my dad dashes the tears from his eyes, surprised to find them there.

We had driven separately to the hospital, following the ambulance, and now our bedraggled and drained family remnant trudges out to the parking lot, keys in hand. I pause with my hand on the door of my car, my tears plinking onto the kelly green paint of the Bug. My brother may never ride shotgun with me again. I can't stand the thought. There has to be _something_, some way to...

My head jerks up, staring off into space as my mid-collegiate brain sputters and churns.

The vampire! The spider belongs to him: he must have an antidote on hand!

"Mom, dad?"

"Yes, sweetie?" answers my dad, looking at me over the car roof.

"I, um," I hesitate to lie any more to them tonight, due to the consequences of my last one. "I need some air. I'm gonna stop by the park on my way home."

Dad is too bleary-eyed and tired to argue about the safety logistics. "Okay. Got your cell phone?"

"Yep."

"Call us if you need us, Adrienne," my mom says, hugging me. Her arms linger around me. "Your brother's going to be okay," she whispers into my hair.

A pleasant sentiment, if I were still a child. Cold reckoning tells me I will be down a brother by the end of the week, if I don't succeed in what I plan to do next. Not knowing if I would be able to again, I hug my mom back tightly, then traverse the lot to do the same to my dad.

Then I get in my car, and go to bargain for my brother's life.


	2. Chapter 2

Being the competent young woman and big sister I am, I fully intended to parlay with the vampire. Provided I could find him, anyway. Logically, I should check the place I last saw him. Funny how that principle rarely works when I need it to (like missing homework), yet works perfectly when I least want it (like seeking to talk terms with the blood sucking undead).

I drove to the abandoned stage where we saw the Cirque, and lo and behold, there the vampire was, standing on the stage like he was expecting me. I imagine that he was.

"Why are you here?" his haughty voice carries with the same ease as during his performance.

"The same reason as you, I imagine," I reply, having no illusions. Steeling myself, I walk down the aisle of threadbare, dusty carpet that I had crossed not six hours ago, watching him closely, even as he watches me. That same gaze that picked me out of an audience is now locked on me again, and my flush battles with my nervous palor.

"How am I to know your thoughts?" he asks with a smirk. "For all I know, you're a psychotic fan seeking a lock of my hair."

"Don't mock me," I snap. I ascend the steps to the stage, and suddenly, we can fully see each other. "We both know why I'm here."

He is spookier up close: pale skin, flaming hair, scarred cheek, flashing seagreen eyes, quick movements, predatory bearing. My subconscious keeps screaming at me, warning me this man - vampire - could kill me without a second thought. This was a horrible idea, and I have a gut-deep feeling it's going to end badly.

"Madam Octa does not take kindly to strangers," says the vampire, dropping the facade and darting closer to peer at me neutrally. His voice is now bereft of the showmanship of earlier in the night, and in its place is cold condescension. "I figured you would come back, when that became apparent." His speech is a bizzarre mix of ancient and uneducated.

"Larten Crepsley, was it?" I ask, my timidity showing at his sudden advance.

He fast tracks to the other side of the stage, keeping me anxious, on my toes. "You may call me Mr. Crepsley. Mister, always."

I may live in the fine ol' South, but the audacity of having my brother's soon-to-be-killer insisting on honorifics rankles me. So on my lips he'll be Mister, but in my rebellious mind he'll be Crepsley. "My brother got bit by Madam Octa - "

The vampire tuts, a mockery of sympathy that tests my restraint.

"And I was wondering if you had an antidote."

"I do," he responds, reaching into a inner coat pocket and retrieving a vial of liquid.

My heart soars. Thank God! Now, to get it to my brother. "I need it. Darren is going to die without it."

When Crepsley speaks, it is as one who sees the world in a stark black-and-white color scheme. In a way, I envy that monochromatic arrangement of life. Being certain about anything is rare, at this volatile stage of my life. "Everything has a price," he says factually.

As a prelude to the wave of shock and paleness, I half-laugh. Here we go: the part I was afraid of. "And what is yours?"

Crepsley smiles then, and it makes me incredibly nervous. "A life for a life is the bargain."

"You want to kill me?" I cry. "Just straight-up _kill me_?" What a wretched deal! Dear God, I had not expected that!

"A living sacrifice, I believe the Christians call it," chuckles Crepsley. "A life of servitude, in exchange for saving your brother from death. You will become a half-vampire, and travel with me as my assistant in the Cirque."

I gape at him, my mind a blinding whirl for several long moments. My knee-jerk reaction is the most obvious one: I don't want to become a vampire, half or not. I don't want to leave my family, my life.

"And you're not open to negotiation?" I whisper, the heavy curtains of the stage dampening the words even further. I have to be sure.

"A life for a life," he confirms stoicly.

"There's nothing you would rather have?" I ask, mustering a smile that falls short of appealing. Female counts for something, right?

His mouth quirks. "Nothing."

I stare at the scuffed wooden floor of the stage, and make up my mind. My brother's life is worth it. I love him dearly, too dearly to let him slip from this world. Moments ago I envied the vampire of his black-and-white outlook. Now, I wish I had my shades of gray back. "I'll do it," I whisper, almost inaudibly.

"Louder," commands the vampire, a partial growl.

I jerk my head up, eyes flashing. "I'll become a half-vampire!"

His countenance seems to both darken and lighten then, equal parts bad news for me and enjoyment for him. "Very good." He takes a step towards me, and my gut clenches in terror, one hand flying to my throat as I take a step back.

"What are you, scared?" he mocks me, continuing to walk towards me. "I'm not going to bite your jugular: I could kill you that way. Then what good would you be?"

I force myself to stay rooted, then, because he made the mistake of accusing me of fear. I may be scared, but I will not back down from a challenge. His steps are measured, testing my resolve. He draws closer, his long jacket flaring until he is standing right over me, looking down into my eyes.

I keep smelling a sharp metallic scent on him that makes me shiver, and I recognize it as iron. I am smelling blood on him. "In exchange for this," I seek clarification, shocking myself at my own boldness. "My brother stays safe, alive, and 100% human." My second year of law school warns me against leaving any loopholes for this shifty redheaded character of the night to exploit.

"Safe, alive, and 100% human," he replies with a smile that I have no choice but to trust. "What is your name?" he asks.

I am thrown by his question. "Adrienne," I reply after a hesitation. "Adrienne Star."

His mouth quirks again. "Different last name than your brother?"

"I'm adopted." _Don't ask how he knows our last names: it doesn't matter._

His eyes flicker into momentary softness. I don't need his pity. "Do you want to know more about vampirism before you take the plunge?"

"It makes no difference," I reply heavily. "My answer is the same. I have to save my brother. I have to." No consequence of this action could dissuade me. Darren's life eclipses every sacrifice.

He seems to like the response, but I am not sure why. "After this, I will explain more. Give me your hands."

I manage to control the shaking of my hands as I raise them palms-up between us. His seagreen eyes spark at my obedience, and quick as a flash, before I can react, he nicks one palm with his sharp fingernail. I gasp and flinch belatedly, but the laden fingernail has already been tasted. He pauses in contemplation, looking at me as though a question is on his lips, then seems to shake the impulse to ask it. "Your blood is good, untainted. We may proceed."

He puts a bit of distance between us, and I can breathe again. "Hold up your hands like this." He demonstrates with his palms towards me.

Losing a little control of my shaking, I mirror his pose. From the forest of fingers between us, he continues factually, "We are going to exchange blood. Are you - ?"

"Don't ask me that," I reply curtly, glaring. He knows full well that I am not on board with this. I'm doing it for my brother, nothing else. I know from Folklore 101 that I'm going to lose a piece of myself to this man, this monster. I know that I am leaving my old life behind me, but I also know it will be completely worth it to see my brother walk out of that hospital.

With that same lightning quickness, his filed fingernails lash out to prick all of my fingertips at the same time. I gasp a little more loudly this time, and cradle my abused fingertips while he systematically pricks each of his own. Taking my wrists briskly (I flush again, despite all), he returns them to their upraised position. Then, he applies his little cuts to mine. I can feel a sluggish, chilly sensation entering my left hand and my own blood moving out of my right, into him. It is weird, and more than a little sickening.

"This may hurt when it gets to your heart," he warns, sounding somewhat chagrinned.

I don't buy the chagrin, but the pain is real enough. My heart begins to pound insanely fast, like it's trying to fit a lifetime of beats into a few seconds. If that weren't disconcerting enough, it pulses and squeezes sharply, like a dagger just buried itself in my chest. I cry out softly, pitching to the floor. Clutching the offending breast, I rock back and forth on my knees, gritting my teeth, mentally begging the organ to stop hurting.

I get my wish.

I untangle my hands from my shirt, blinking back sudden tears, and rise shakily. Crepsley does not aid me to my feet. "I feel...strange," I marvel, looking down at myself. My skin feels like a fission reaction has gone off under it, crawling and cooling like a dwarf star's death.

"More will come in time," the vampire assures. "Especially when you drink blood."

Suddenly, my arm catches both our eyes at the same time. Thin black tendrils are snaking their way up my hand and forearm from the little incisions. "Is that supposed to happen?" I ask in mild alarm. The other limb is doing the same thing.

He takes my hand and studies it, brow knit. "No. It is not."

What follows puts the heart pains to shame. Of its own accord, my entire body locks and I fall heavily to the floor. My spine arches to the point of snapping, and I scrabble the air with stiff fingers, my mouth frozen in an _O_ of incredible pain. My voice is caught in my throat, or I would be screaming to high heavens. Oh my God, I've never been in this much pain before in my life! The pain is excruciating, exquisite, every flaming lick under my skin like hot pokers, melting needles, acid. My nerves are trying to claw their way out of my skin, hot wires wrapped around my bones.

"What the hell!" barks Crepsley, sounding worried. If the vampire is worried, then so am I.

I pay him little heed, as my vision is rapidly darkening, but I feel him turn me onto my back and cup my face with a cold hand. I don't know how many minutes this wracking agony goes on because I black out for several. When I come too, my body is limp where it had been rock-hard tense, and the pain is ebbing rapidly. I take a shuddering breath as it exits my body completely, allowing me to rise from the depths of unconsciousness. I open my eyes and find Crepsley staring at me, lightly slapping a palm against my cheek. Well, lightly for a vampire: pretty hard, for a human.

"What was that?" I croak, momentarily too tired to care that the bastard is touching me. I feel both warm and cold: energized, yet like the world moves slower around me. Every touch is sensitized, and I could swear my vision is clearer.

"Do you honestly want to know?" he replies obscurely.

I feel my ire coming back to me in a flood. "No, I asked to hear my own voice," I snark. I find it in me to sit upright, dislodging his hands, and clamber to my feet as he does, albeit more unsteadily.

"I imagine your body had an unpleasant reaction due to your unwillingness." He sounds accusatory, like it's completely my fault.

"I can't fathom why," I snort sullenly.

"Or it might be because you are female. Everyone's change is a little different," he goes on. "Another reason you need a firm, guiding hand."

Taking mental record of myself, I note the newfound bounciness in my limbs, the ever-so-slight lightening of my skin. The motes of dust in the air distract me from calling him on the 'guiding hand' comment.

"The blood still took: I heard your heart. And," he pauses, leans into my personal space, and sniffs. "You smell different. Our agreement stands."

I grind my teeth, but I know he is right. For now, I'll play along. I nod. "When we have the time, Mr. Crepsley," I say, eyeing him sharply. "You have some 'splaining to do."

Crepsley's mouth quirks, and his seagreen eyes flicker as he takes my dare. "Yes." He swirls his long jacket back onto his shoulders. "Now get on my back. We're going to flit to the hospital."

Oh, hell, no. "Flit?" I choke out, by way of stalling.

"You saw how I entered in my Cirque act. Flitting is vampire speed."

"No way. Not a chance in hell," I say firmly. "I drove here. I can't leave my car in this neighborhood!"

"Your car will be fine," he insists with a longsuffering sigh. "And by my estimation, your brother has little time before Madam Octa's venom claims him."

That puts things in perspective. "Fine."

"Get on my back," he repeats, a little harder.

"Excuse me?" Can you say: inappropriate contact?

"I'm going to flit, so I need to carry you. _Get on. My back._" He turns his back to me expectantly.

Still I hesitate for various reasons. I'm athletic, so my 5'9" frame is wrapped with muscle from swimming in highschool and heavy volunteer farm work for community service hours in college. I'm not light. Crepsley's only about four inches taller than me, and maybe eighty pounds heavier. I am in no mood to compound my problems today with knocking him to the ground with my weight.

He's a stranger. He's going to take me away from everything I know and love. Crepsley's held my brother's life over my head like a scoundrel, and the monster did it without qualm or remorse. I hate him.

I don't want to get on his damn back.

He straightens tensely, whips around, and glowers into my face ferociously. "If you don't get on my back _right now_, Adrienne, your first lesson from me will be in obedience. It will consist of putting you over my knee."

My eyes must go wide as saucers, then. The first time he uses my name is to threaten me with a spanking? Seriously? What is he, Fifty Shades? Aside from having only been spanked four times as a child, I'm twenty years old now! My pride couldn't take those hard, razor-tipped hands any more than my butt could. Fear usurps anger for the moment, and I remember every second we waste is one Darren may not have. I duck my head and nod, the picture of meekness.

He turns around again. Putting my hands on his dipped shoulders, I bounce and wrap my legs around him, which he catches me behind the knees with startling ease. "You're strong," I observe with surprise, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, not over them. Even though I would love to wrap them around his neck, choke him out, and steal the vial of antidote, I imagine that to be beyond my capacity for violence. At the moment. I don't like that this monster gets a full feel of 'the goods', but what options do I have?

"So will you be," he replies, adjusting. "When you start to feed."

"Feed?" I echo.

He doesn't answer; instead, digs in his feet, tenses all his muscles, and we go flying forward. The world is a stupendous blur of lights and partial shapes, and my breath is ripped from my lungs. We dash to the outside of the theater housing the stage, turn towards East Street, and flit again.

Although the speed with which we move hinders my observations, I note that the wee hours of the morning are much different that those before midnight. The night tastes different than when I first entered the run-down theater. The pools of light from flickering street lamps feel like wane forays into the darkness, like frontiersmen pushing the boundaries of civilization. The stars are few and far above the city, but the strongest ones glimmer in the velvety black sky. A well-rounded moon hovers in midflight over us, pressing down on the darkness like creamer in coffee before stirring.

We don't stop untill we've crossed a few dozen blocks and many miles of city, halting on a blank side of the hospital without lights, parking lots, or people. Crepsley drops my legs almost before we've stopped and I slide, or rather, slither, to the ground. My stomach has taken residence in my mouth for the moment, and I have to mentally chant _Don't throw up _until I am sure I am safe.

"Didn't I tell you to hold your breath?" the vampire asks me with a hint of mischevious glee. "Sorry."

"Asshole," I pant, straightening.

"Perhaps," he admits with a wicked grin. "Get on my back again. We're going to climb to your brother's room."

This time, I swallow my inhibitions and do as bade. Darren has little time left. I've read enough Bram Stoker to guess what Crepsley means, anyway. Time to earn my nickname: Adrenaline.

A minute later, I'm stuck to his back like a tick while he uses his fingersnails - and toenails! - to scale the sheer brick wall to the lighted window.

"Will I be able to do this?" I ask him, softer than usual due to the proximity of my mouth to his ear.

"Eventually," he says, almost without evidence of his effort. As a shadow crosses the curtained window directly to our left, he flattens slightly and falls silent. I hold my breath, praying the window won't open. When the shadow moves on, so does Crepsley.

"Try not to look down," he warns, but it sounds like a goad. He's noticed my extremely tight hold, both in arms and legs.

"I won't look down," I mutter to myself. "I won't look down, I won't look..."

"You're looking, aren't you?"

I am. I respond by tightening my grip sharply, burying my face in his back as terror strikes my heart. "Sweet Jesus, that's a long-ass fall."

Suddenly, he makes an odd groaning sound, ducking his head and making the jacket under my face shift over his trembling muscles. "What are you _doing _back there?" he asks in a pained way.

Just before I form the words 'Doing what?', I raise my head, and my voice dies. There are ethereal, gossamer strands floating between us, like tendrils of fog thinning and reforming. They exist wherever there is contact between us, regardless of clothes.

"Holy...! Do you see that?" I ask with mixed fear and wonder. "What_ is_ that?"

The vampire doesn't answer. Crepsley's muscles under my body are growing slack, and his eyelids are fluttering down. One foot loses its hold in the wall, and I stifle a loud squeal as we jolt lower several inches. "Crepsley!"

The vampire grunts, shaking his wild head. "I feel weak..."

"Get it together, vampire, or we're both going down!" I snap fearfully. And a long way down it is.

I am a newly turned half-vampire. I am scared, four stories off the ground, and way out of my league with this entire course of my life. My 'rockclimbing buddy' is fixing to eat the ground, and take me with him. I do what any normal person would do: I reach around to my courier's face and give him a resounding slap.

That does the trick: coming out the stupor, Crepsley snarls in effort, digging in the free foot. I feel his back muscles twitching, as though trying to wake up. Winding up again, I throw my terror into one more hard slap to the side of Crepsley's face. Kind of serves him right for slapping me awake, really.

With a shiver and low grumble the strands of light dissipate, and he's back. Now he's firing on all cylinders, and he's _pissed. _

"What the hell was that?" he growls menacingly at me over his shoulder, seagreen eyes flashing.

"I - " I stutter and fail. What do I say? I saw foggy light wrap itself around us like scarves, and now it's gone? "You were about to lose your grip - "

"Child, I lost my footing for a split second, and you take that as an opportunity to slap me?"

Now I'm sort of scared for my life in a different way, and more than a little confused. "I really thought - "

"You were wrong," he cuts me off.

So he didn't see the ethereal tendrils. I have no way of proving my side, so I just let it slide, chocking it up to being a 'vampire thing' that Folklore 101 didn't cover. Plus, it might be a good idea for him to know I have no issues with hitting him.

Whatever. Bigger fish to fry.


	3. Chapter 3

He faces the brick again, and we continue to climb in tense and uneventful silence for twenty more feet.

After sliding the loose window of the old hospital open, Crepsley clambers us inside. I am only mildly surprised that we are in the right room, because I get the feeling he's been keeping tabs on the boy who stole his spider. I step closer to the harsh florescent light that illuminates my poor, sick brother laying pale and clammy in the bed.

Reaching out, I stroke back his hair and murmur, "Hey, buddy. It's sis." His face is fevered and sallow, and I'm filled with renewed guilt. His eyes twitch under his lids at my voice. "I got something to make you feel much better." I sit down on the bed, holding his too-cold hand. "It's my fault he got bitten," I murmur. "If I had taken the high road, told him 'no' to the Cirque, he'd never have even _seen_ that damn spider."

Crepsley is wasting no time in walking to the other side of the bed, pulling the vial of turpentine-colored liquid from his inner coat. "That damn spider is my friend," he corrects with some annoyance. "And do not discount the mechanisms of fate," he says obscurely. With a prick of his thumbnail he opens a vein in my brother's arm, covers it while he tips the vial into his mouth, and then bends over the nick with a suckling sound.

I make myself watch, to ensure the bargain is kept, but it makes me ill to witness. I don't do the whole needles and veins thing. Phlebotomy is not my forte, at all.

"That's it?" I query, watching the vampire's tongue hem the bleeding and the skin knit before my eyes.

"That's it." He straightens, then glances down at the hand holding onto Darren. "You can heal yourself, you know. Lick your fingers."

I still have open pricks in all my fingers. Intrigued, I press my index pad to my tongue. "Nothing's happening," I say with concern, repeating the process with each finger individually.

Crepsley does that personal-space-invasion thing again, turning both my hands over in his own critically. "Everyone takes the change a little differently," he reasons, stroking my fingers flat. "I've even seen temporary hypnosis abilities. Bodies and brains go haywire. Or, in your case, suppress."

This is uncomfortable. I pointedly try to take my hands from his, but he holds fast.

"Relax," he urges, seagreen eyes flicking to mine winningly. Then he brings my index finger to his mouth.

"Gross," I breathe. The comment should be louder, more persistent, but the fascination of watching my cuts close dulls my indignation.

Next, middle finger disappears shallowly into his wet mouth, meeting the slick and textured creature therein. I inhale and my body locks, but I am momentarily taken by the gentle fervence in his expression as he carefully and efficiently salves each cut. I should protest the grossness, the inappropriateness, the hygiene.

But I can't.

Ten times I get the flush-worthy sesation of a man licking my fingers. Ten times, the cuts itch and close.

"There," he says, dropping my hand. "All better."

The parent-to-child phrasing ticks something inside me I can't explain. "Thank you," I say, gaze skittering around.

Crepsley picks at the newly recognized thin smears of blood on his coat, the product of my ignorance and firm grip, with a sigh. "It'll have to be laundered."

I can't control my expression of incredulity and longsuffering at his words. I roll my eyes and take my brother's hand again. "How long until it takes effect?"

"A few minutes, then we leave," says the vampire, giving up on his coat.

I look at my sweet baby bro and stroke his puffy face. "Okay," I whisper.

And so we do. Darren's inflamed bite mark on his face begins to fade rapidly, much to my satisfaction. It is a nurse that drives us from the room, though. My hearing must be amplifying into the range of the supernatural, because I hear the nurse's sneakers turn the corner down the hall. Crepsley motions, I hop hurriedly into my now-familiar seat, and we tip out of the window just as the portly black woman opens the room door. I hear her gasp, then walk rapidly down the hall. "Doctor! Come look!"

Crepsley and I hang below the beam of light cast by the window, and he looks at me over his shoulder. "Have I satisfied my part of the deal?"

I bite my lip and nod. He quirks his lips again, and we start to descend. The pale moon illuminates us exceptionally, and I'm grateful for the seclusion on this side of the hospital.

"Cre- erm, Mr. Crepsley?" I venture, catching myself.

"Hmm?"

"What now?"

He waits until we touch the ground to answer. "Now," Crepsley exhales, fixing his jacket's collar and cuffs. "I take you to your car. Your brother comes home tomorrow, and you enjoy the day with your family." His eyes pin me sternly. "Then, we fake your death."

"Why?" I cry, utterly sideswiped.

"You're a half-vampire now, child," Crepsley replies with cold factuality. He is only imparting what he has learned, what has been flayed into his skin by the cruel world.

I refuse to believe him. I am not him. I am not a full vampire.

"Your thirst for blood will only get stronger and stronger with time," he continues. "Soon you'll snap and kill your father, or your mother, or any number of other people. If you don't die and are free to leave them, you can never learn all you need to know for your new life. There are rules I must teach you, codes by which vampires live. You are my responsibility."

"But I - " My hackles raise.

"How would you explain it when your body is ambient temperature?" he interrupts, stepping forward. "Or when cameras can't capture your image? How about the thirst, the fingernails, the strength, the inability to age, the healing, or the constant lies you will tell to keep your secret?" He takes my shoulders with both hands. "You. Are. _Gone._ You have no place in the human world anymore."

My hand comes up to cover my mouth in horror. "I can't put my family through that! They just got back their son! Losing their daughter will devastate - "

"Would you rather leave them in the dark?" the vampire interrupts again. "You can either stay and destroy your family, or you can free them. If you simply disapppear, you bind them to your memory. Always searching, always wondering what happened to their adoptee. You must die."

I turn away from his icy logic to pace a few steps off, my brain churning, my heart aching. This is a massive download and I struggle under its weight. It threatens to crush me flat. Through eyes blurred with tears, I look up at the tranquil moon, silently entreating time to turn back, for my nightmare to end, for my fate to recant. The creamy, luminescent orb grants me none of these things.

Already, I can feel a stirring of hunger in my belly. Part of me wants desperately to believe it is simply due to late night munchies and stress. And the newer, more primal part of me tells me exactly what it is: blood. I don't even have any real memories of blood to draw on, so flashes of fantasy riddle my brain. Salty-sweet, lovely crimson...No! It's not bloodthirst! I push the disturbia away.

I could leave my aspirations of being a lawyer. That many years of college for something to placate my parents didn't really appeal to me, anyway. I could leave what few friends I have, because the years and our lives have caused us to divert. I could leave my home of fifteen years, my car, my town of bookstores and antique shops.

But my family? It's just too much to bear.

I don't turn around when I hear Crepsley move, a window open, then close. To my right, a hand holds out a Kleenex. I look to the owner and it's Crepsley, looking disinterested. "I would tell you not to cry," he sighs. "But you will, anyway."

Taking the tissue with prideful gratefulness, I pull myself together, blowing my nose, wiping my eyes.

"It's been a long night," says the vampire with more nonchalance than I gave him credit for. "Let's get you home. I'm sure your parents must be worried."

"Yeah." I had almost forgotten about that. They must think I've been raped and murdered in the park. Little do they know. "The sad part is," I sob-laugh bitterly. "Is that I chose not to get the details before we exchanged blood. And even sadder, is the fact I would have made the same damn decision."

Suddenly, my cell phone rings, making me jump. I look at Crepsley, who motions me on, then reach into my pocket for it. "Mom?" My voice sounds convincingly thick.

"Honey! Get home, now! Doctor Caraway just called." My mother sounds ecstatic. "Your brother just woke up, we're going to the hospital."

I whoop and laugh, banishing my tears. My heart fairly sings for joy. "I'm closer to the hospital than home, I'll meet you there," I reply excitedly. Hanging up, I look at Crepsley again, all clad in red and smeared with my blood like a real vampire. My inherent Southerner is rising in me, that cultural inclination that urges me to beam at him and say, "Thank you."

He looks somewhat uncomfortable, and stares up at the moon. "Don't be so hasty to thank me," he says, contemplating the celestial body. "Your life from this point will be difficult. But then, the best victories are the ones earned in trial."

My good spirits die back somewhat, and I pensively gaze with him for a minute. I consider my choices that led to this moment. "I still don't understand," I say, "Why I have to leave my family. They're the only family I have: my birth parents are dead."

"By the time I come for you tomorrow night," he replies firmly and simply. "You will."

* * *

With a departing, "See you after sunset," Crepsley leaves me at my car and flits away in a blur of red.

With a snort, I flip the bird in the direction he disappeared. "Not so much as a goodnight kiss," I mutter sarcastically. Glancing around I see nobody, save for a bat diving for moths that dance in the streetlight. The moon is about an hour from setting. I insert my car key and pull off from the curb. I set a new landspeed record for getting to the hospital, park hastily, and run up the fire escape steps to save time. When I finally skid to a halt in my brother's room, barely out of breath, I am filled with joy at what I see.

Darren is sitting up in bed, the ventilator is gone from his mouth, and above all, he's smiling. "Hey, sis," he says warmly. "Weren't you - ?"

I come close to tackling him, wrapping my arms around him tightly. "Darren!" New tears spill onto my cheeks.

"Oof, Adrenaline!" he gasps out my nickname. "Some grip!"

Immediately I let him go, apologizing. Crepsley's warning about my strength increase runs through my head. "I'm just so happy you're alright."

"I wasn't even gone, you know," Darren says, dimpling. "Just took a stay-cation."

I take him by the shoulders and look him over. He's a little pale still, and the bite mark from Madam Octa will likely scar, but he seems eons improved. I sit down on the bed, grasping his IV hand gingerly. "Oh, sorry. You wanted to ask me something?"

"Yeah," replies my brother, his brow winking into a furrow. "Weren't you just here?"

Momentarily taken aback, I flounder for words. "Um, yeah, with mom and dad, earlier tonight."

"No," he ventures. "No, that's not what I meant. I mean, here less than an hour ago. With a man."

I play it off pretty well, by my standards. "No, buddy. You must have had a coma dream."

He buys my reasonable excuse. "Must have. Where are mom and dad, by the way?"

"They're coming. I happened to be closer. I was at the park, clearing my head."

"You mean buying drugs?" he snickers. The park is known for that, after all.

It's an old joke between us, so I join him in laughing. Little does he know, I bought not one, but _two_ helluva drugs tonight: one for him, and the other, unfortunately, for me.

The same portly black lady that chased me out of the room on two occasions reenters with a polite knock on the open door. "Doc Caraway wanted to run some blood tests. I'm here to take samples."

I feel my arms cross automatically.

"It's okay, sis," says Darren understandingly. He knows my aversion to phlebotomy, needles, and veins. "You can stay outside, if you want."

I clench my jaw determinedly. I faced down a vampire tonight and came out whistling. I can handle being in the same room as a blood draw. "I just got you back. I'm not leaving you alone for a second," is my response.

The black nurse applies the tourniquet, readies her tray of vials, and strips the sterile cover off a needle. Darren looks down, fascinated, as she inserts it into his vein. Shockingly bright red blood snakes down the tube and spills into the vial.

I find myself oddly transfixed. Deep down, I know that I am afraid of needles, and grossed out equally by blood. I should be scrunching my eyes shut right now. I should be excusing myself from the room. But instead, I stare at the viscous fluid flowing so incredibly easily into vial after vial, numbly and distantly interested. Literally, my mouth starts to water. I try to imagine what it tastes like, what it feels like sliding down my throat, warming my tongue, coating my lips...

"Sis?" asks Darren. "Sis, you okay?"

_Quick, snap out of it, Adrienne! Move, look away, something!_ My answer is to slacken my jaw in preparation for words that aren't formed, trying to reconnect my brain to my tongue...

"Darren!" squeals my mother from the door.

I jolt out of my trance like a bucket of cold water was dumped on me, dazed by the loss of focus, and hurriedly make way for her to imitate my earlier tackle-hug, albeit with less force. "Darren, my sweet baby boy," she sniffles, stroking his hair. "You're okay!"

"Whoa, mom," laughs Darren, hugging her back with his free arm.

"My boy!" my father exclaims, entering the room seconds behind my mother. He cashes in on the hug, too, laying himself over his two blood relatives and wrapping his long arms around them.

"Easy, there," cautions the nurse. "Almost... done." She unknots the tourniquet, slaps a gauze pad in the crook of Darrens arm, and gathers her things.

Meanwhile, in the corner of the room, I try to make myself as small as possible while I reel from what I nearly just did. I almost just jumped my brother for his blood! Dear God, what is happening to me?

Wait, what's in my hand? I look surreptitiously, and my eyes go wide. A vial of Darren's blood. When did I...?

"Come 'ere, sweetie," dad says, opening an arm to invite me into the lovefest.

I paste a happy smile on my face and oblidge, slipping the tube into my pocket. I don't even remember swiping it, but I know what's going to happen to it.

As soon as I can get alone, I'm drinking it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:**

**Wow. This story has completely thrown me down and ravaged me. I didn't expect it to seize me with such ferocity! This is the first time I have had two full stories going at once ('Of Apiaries and Eggplant, a Hannibal ff, and this one).**

**Again, mixing elements of the books/movie, people. Hold on tight. **

* * *

We watch the sun come up from Darren's room, eating hospital reconstituted eggs and toast with his bed as our table.

The vial of my baby brother's blood is practically burning a hole in my pocket as I force myself to swallow synthetic protein that does not slake my hunger. The little tube feels like it has a pulse of its own against my leg, as though its contents still swim in Darren's veins.

My mouth waters again around ashen toast, and I am vaguely ashamed of myself. I'm not even trying to pretend like I'm going to struggle with drinking that vial like a Jello shot. I hate that it's Darren's, and I hate that this change in my body is against my will, but that's where my trepidations end.

Yep, I'm in deep.

"Are you okay, sis?" asks Darren, chewing his crushed ice cup's straw. "You seem out of it."

"Well, duh!" I chuckle, seamlessly integrating my internal roiling into reality. "I haven't slept since you got bit."

"Not at all?" asks mom concernedly, putting down her fork.

"Even we caught a wink before the phone rang," adds dad disapprovingly.

I fan the air with both hands in the universal 'calm yo tits' gesture. "I'll get all the sleep I need when I'm dead," I reply with a charismatic grin. Or when I find a convenient coffin. Is that even a thing? I'll have to ask Crepsley when he comes...

And there it is, looming over me. This is my family's last day of being together, whole, happy. As I take in their smiling faces around me, debating whether toast squares or triangles are tastier, my eyes prick with tears I refuse to shed.

Crepsley's a moron if he thinks I'm taking this laying down. My brain tells me I'm missing something, something important, but I can't put my finger on it.

In time, I excuse myself as nonchalantly as possible to the bathroom adjoining the room.

The sharp fluorescent light winks on when I tug the narrow chain, and my own haunted face reflects in the mirror. I look pretty rough: heavy purple smudges under my baby blue eyes, my skin paler than usual against my straw blonde hair. My own expression disturbs me, all hunted and urgent and _hungry. _

Hands trembling from - what, excitement? fear? need? - I reach into my jeans and withdraw the vial of my brother's blood. Tilting the tube side to side makes me marvel at the consistency of the crimson liquid therein. I had expected it to look thicker somehow, like ketchup, not like water.

Again, I look at myself in the mirror, and I'm distantly worried by the starved look on my face. The shaking gets stronger, and my will to resist gets weaker.

The intensity of the hunger is startling. I'm only a few hours old, and this is how strong the need to drink blood is? How much stronger will it get? How much can I take? How long until I can't take it, and rip into the nearest warm body? What if I can't find blood? The very thought makes me panicky.

Dear God, I'm ravenous.

Do I really want to do this? Hell yes. I can already taste the nutrition, the sustenance, the satiation. But do I really want my first taste of human blood to be Darren's?

_Who am I kidding?_ The instinct within me snorts._ We're not related, not by blood. He is prey, just like every other human on this planet._

_NO! _I shout back at it, my fist closing on the vial. _Darren is NOT food. Humans are living things... _Shit, I'm already differentiating!

_Things with _that_ running in their veins, _corrects the instinct.

Before I know it, my thumbnail has broken the seal around the edge of the vial. I think my nails are already growing longer. Will they be as long as Crepsley's?

Shuddering, I focus on working the lid loose, and soon, the only thing standing between me and a wet throat is my humanity.

_Do it, _whispers the instinct. _Feed._

"I'm sorry," I murmur, though I am not sure to whom. Bringing the vial to my lips, I tip it back, swallow.

Saccharine rubies. Sweet intoxication. I momentarily feel drunk with the unadulterated surge of power that thrums through my body from my stomach, radiating out. Every muscle feels like it's wired to a nuclear power plant, begging to spend energy. I could run a marathon, scale a mountain, lift a car!

Still tipsy with power, I watch in fascination as a few scarves of light materialize and wrap themselves around my body, feeling misty and ethereal. They are exactly like the ones that appeared on the wall with Crepsley. They'd made him weak, almost pass out. In contrast, they make me feel like I'm being caressed by electric eels, giving me little bolts of energy. I must not have noticed the sensation when I was hanging on the wall with Crepsley. Still, it's not a comfortable sensation to my overworked psyche. Worriedly I shake my hands like they're wet, and they disappear. These random, flowing streaks of light are freaky. That ginger bastard had better have a good explaination for all the odd stuff that's happening to me.

Man, this vampire stuff is weirdly intense! I feel like I've been sick as a dog and didn't know it, then with one swallow, gained all the powers of a Marvel comic character.

Capping the vial again, I put it in a heavy handful of paper towels and crush it under my boot. Shaking the glass fragments into the toilet, I flush the pink, glittering dust down, and wash my hands carefully.

No one has to know. Now, to live my last day.

Stepping out again, I find the smile slides into place easier, and I take my place next to my family. They have no clue I just became a monster. Crepsley had warned that I would know just how removed from the world I was by the end of a day. Having had just a taste of the thirst my bestial nature caused, and the immense, hindbrain-deep satisfaction of giving in to it, I knew he was right. If I had been required to go another day, or even a half-day longer without drinking blood, no doubt my own wailing humanity could not have stood up to the roaring of the beast within me.

I would never be able to keep this secret. I would never be able to keep my family safe from this new side of me unless I left. And the only way to leave and give them closure would be to die.

Just because I understood it didn't mean I wanted it. But then, at age twenty, I knew something about doing things I didn't want to do.

_It's for the best,_ I think, bittersweetly watching mom, dad and Darren surf through and discuss the options on the TV in the corner. _They'll be sad, but they'll be safe._

Again, I have the nagging feeling I'm forgetting something. It's something to do with my agreement with Crepsley. But I have no time to ponder it now.

The act I have just committed sparked something inside me that I am afraid to address head-on. In drinking my first taste of human blood, I feel a sense of separation from this, my current existence as Adrienne Star, daughter of the Shans. I have this sense of finality. I've made my choice: possibly the most defining choice of my life.

_You. Are Gone. _Crepsley's words echo through my head, but I feel them much more poignantly in my heart.

* * *

Darren is discharged soon after breakfast because they can't find a reason to keep him, and we roll out towards home. In the seclusion of my little Bug, I pump the jams and belt Ke$ha, croon the Maroon, and turn the Black Eyed Peas totally white-girl.

"Oh, God," groans Darren, bracing himself against the dashboard. "Where's that spider? I need her to finish killing me."

"If you sing with me, it will be less painful," I cajole, pounding the steering wheel in time to Fun.

"I just came out of the _hospital. _Mercy, chil', mercy."

"Alright, since you're being all pitiful, you can choose the station, co-pilot."

"Thank St. Peter on a pogo stick," he replies, leaping at the buttons. One stab later, he's got us listening to classic rock.

Humming appreciatively, I change the beat of my tapping. "I love Blue Oyster Cult. '_Come on baby, don't fear the reaper...'_"

The lyrics of my favorite song have changed meaning, now. Crepsley's smirking, rough face is associated with them. I don't especially fear my reaper, but that might change once I'm under his power and control, fully integrated as his assistant. What will he make me do?

My face flickers into a frown, and I push the worry away. I am here, now, in this car with my brother, with good music and love and contentedness. That is what I must focus on. _"And she had no fear, she ran to him..."_

"We should save up and see them in concert," Darren says, a smile tilting his cherub lips and wrinkling the lingering spider bite on his cheek. "After WWE Smackdown."

"Yeah," I manage. "We should." My poor brother doesn't know that I'm fixing to die in a few short hours. The crushing weight of it hits me all over again. Crepsley is taking me away from everything I've ever known, into something I completely don't. The only thing I am sure of is that gravity will continue to function, and that my heart will never stop aching so long as I am away from my family.

Won't it?

Oh, my God. I'm leaving my _family, forever. _I quell the freakout before it has a chance to overtake me. _Kids leave their families all the time, _I tell myself stubbornly. _It's no different with me. I would have to leave eventually, anyway. _

"Hey, buddy?"

"Yeah?"

I stop tapping, thumbing the wheel thoughtfully. "What would you do if I died?"

He snorts with laughter, then catches my expression. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Darren props his head on his hand, eyeing the downtown-to-suburbia decay outside the window. He is quiet for a long minute. "Well," he starts slowly. "I would be incredibly sad."

Gratifying as that is on some level, it's not what I'm looking for. "But would you move on? Would you... _live?_"

He turns his head of dark hair, eyes flickering over the shadowy profile of my face in the poor morning light. "Yeah," he whispers. "I guess I would, eventually. I'd have to. Life would go on." He puts an IV-bruised hand on my forearm. "But it'd suck," he declares.

I laugh around my swelled throat. "You'd get my room, remember. Turn it into a gaming suite for the Xbox."

He warms to my snickering. "Throw the biggest-ass flatscreen I could find up on the wall. After I paint the place, of course."

"Don't you dare paint my room!" I balk. "It took me forever to find that shade of green!"

"You mean goblin vomit?"

I smack his arm, and he yelps petulantly. "It's called jasper, ass. And don't worry. It ain't your problem yet."

"Yet?" he chuckles. "Try never." Rubbing his palms down his jeans, he sighs. "But it would really suck if you..."

I pat his leg, signalling to follow our parents' car's turn. "I know. Ditto."

We go through a tunnel, and I am grateful for the darkness interspersed with yellow, wane light from the lamps in the walls. It takes me the entire length of it to collect my emotions and shove them back down.

Somewhere, on the other side of a Pacific Ocean of pain and suffering, I know that there is peace to be had after losing a loved one. I can only hope and pray that Darren, mom, and dad can cross that sea quickly.

* * *

The day's minutes spill out of my fingers like blood from a wound I can't staunch, the seconds counting down like grains in an hourglass.

And I have no choice but to let them go.

There are so many movies and books about terminally ill people who, armed with the knowledge they are going to die, do everything on their bucket lists. Well, my bucket list ain't going anywhere, but I am. And I have the feeling the rest of my undead existence will entail a great many bucket-list-quality things, what with the Cirque being on the horizon. So I spend my last day mundanely, doing things that will soon be amazingly touching.

I take special time to make a pot of tea for my mom and I, and bring it to her out on the porch where she reads in her swing. I hold her hand, and she rambles on in that loving way about my future husband, my future children. "He's going to be a lucky man," she says, grinning at me. "Between your tomato sauce and your tea, I think you can keep any man you want happy."

I take a ladylike sip from my teacup. "That, and my insatiable sex drive."

Mom snorts into her teacup, splashing Earl Greyer, and starts to laugh.

I'll always remember the sound of that laugh. It is every happy childhood memory that I hold dear, every skinned knee kissed better, every bag lunch packed, every fabric softener sheet falling out of my sleeve.

She talks like my life is all wrapped up, taped and bowed like a Christmas present. Deep down, it pangs something irritable inside me. Do I really want to live a normal life? All people, with very little variation, get a degree, get a job, get a spouse, start a family. The scripted pattern of humanity, in four easy acts like a damn Hallmark movie.

The irritablity persists, so I excuse myself back into the house before I ruin the good impression I left. It's our last tea together, after all.

Dad is telecommuting in his office upstairs, so I make a sandwhich for him, another for me, and whip up a batch of Nutella cookies. Carrying a laden tray, I nudge open the door to his work room and smile winningly.

He's on the phone, but cocks a pleased brow. "I'ma need to call you back, man. An angel just walked in, and she's got chocolate."

I pull up a second chair and we share lunch, talking about how school is going for me and how production numbers are down for him. Grunting around a mouthful of cocoa goodness, the man I get my choco-holsim from tells me with understated casualness, "You know I'm insanely proud of you, right?"

Chewing thoughtfully, I nod. "Yeah, I do."

"No, I mean _really, insanely _proud of you," he corrects. "You've accomplished so much in so little time. Getting into a prestigious college, winning those scholarships, making such stellar grades, growing up so beautiful..." He clears his throat around what I could swear was a lump. "What I see," he motions at me, cross-legged in a rolling chair. "Doesn't match up with what I feel in my heart you are." Taking a framed picture from the corner of the desk, he shows me a photo of myself as barely six years old, splashing merrily in a bathtub, a look of pure happiness on my chubby face. My blonde stick-straight locks weren't as frustrating then.

"You see?" he says, replacing the frame. "It don't matter how much you grow up. You're still my baby girl."

Any other day, one that weren't my last, I would smile beautifically and reach for another cookie. Today, though, every word has another meaning... a sharp edge to pierce me to the bone, and a drug that makes pain worthwhile.

"I love you, dad."

"Love you, babe."

I realize then that I'm going to miss him, but not the way he still treats me. For the longest time, I've felt stifled, baking in my own skin like a potato, smothered like a chick in the egg. I need to _breathe_. I need to _fly. _

Although Crepsley and vampirism is not the way I had expected that to happen, or even on my list of top choices, I think I can work with it.

So I pick up our tray and leave him to his work, before my restlessness in made manifest in the marring of our loving moment.

Darren is gaming in his bedroom, those ginormous headphones on his ears and frantically thumbing his controller. As I knock and enter, he screams, "NO! What the hell, man?! Sure, blame it on the lag! Yeah, yeah, go camp in a corner. Best place for you." Looking over his shoulder he sees me, and pulls one ear aside and covers his mic. "Yeah, sis?"

He sounds impatient, but I know if I let this opportunity pass, we'll both regret it. "Come take a walk with me," I wheedle. "Please?"

With a sigh that sounds only slightly put-upon, he keys his mic. "YOU IDIOTS! I'm fresh outta the hospital and I play better than you. Hell, your grandma plays better than you! Screw it, I'm off." And he very calmly shuts down his game. "They're all in grade school," he groans to me, rising from his chair. "All of 'em. Useless on maps like this."

I nod. I've watch him play enough to understand. "Do you mind? I've missed you, and nearly had to say goodbye to you for good." In a matter of hours, I will.

"Nah, I need to get some exercise and fresh air. Docs say I get to go back to school tomorrow."

"Yaaay," I say sarcastically, watching him heel into his shoes.

_This is way easier than I thought it might be, _I think as we turn down the driveway, our backs to the setting sun. It makes me second-guess the emotion. All day, I've been saying goodbye, making my peace, trying to give one last good memory to each of my family. They will miss the little adoptee that came into their lives and entwined herself around their bones like kudzu vine.

My brother's shadow and mine are the same height. When did that happen? "When did you start getting so tall?" I accuse, shoving him affectionately.

"Ow! I dunno," he replies, shrugging. He runs a hand through his puberty-greased hair, and it strikes me just how much older he's gotten since I last checked. He's getting lanky, filling out and up, shedding the skin of a child or preteen and showing glimpses of the young man beneath. There is facial hair vying for dominance with the healing spider bite.

"I swear, I'll grind your feet to nubs with a belt sander before I let you get taller than me," I threaten.

"Geez, dark much?" he grins. "Wouldn't a haircut be just as good?"

I tap my cheek, pretending to consider. "Well, I suppose," I sigh, then dissolve into laughter.

Loathe as I am to admit it, a day to consider and think has made me change my opinion. The frightening unknown that Crepsley is beckoning me towards does not seem as scary: rather, it is starting to smell distinctly of the adventure I've always wanted. As Darren and I reenter the house through the garage, my hiking backpack hanging on the wall in the far corner catches my eye. I've been planning on hiking the Appalachian Trail from Maine to Georgia since highschool, senior year. 2,179 miles of near-perfect solitude felt like an absolute dream. But applications for college came, and scholarship opportunities, and then actual school... Life's current tugged me away from my dream.

Mom, dad, Darren... they never could understand the itch inside me.

I will always love them. They will always love me. I doubt I will ever forgive myself for what I am about to put them through. But, selfish as it is, I am going to do it anyway. Not because Crepsley made me promise: because I _chose_ to. To pin this all on him would be too easy, a cop out of epic proportions.

The vampire saved my brother's life.

I made him a promise in return.

Inevitably, if I refuse, bad things will come of it. No, Crepsley has not threatened me or my family, nor blackmailed me. He has not made himself my enemy in this way. He has painted the facts accurately, with painful truth. The bad things that would come upon me would be my own doing: slipping up and hurting someone, draining them, killing them.

I know what I must do; escape to a world where he can teach me to be safe again.

Now that I've tipped over the edge, the only thing left to do it control the fall with my newfound wings. Whether or not the feathers will hold me remains to be seen.


	5. Chapter 5

Somehow, the meatloaf that always seemed to stick to my throat tasted Food Network-quality tonight. Engaging in pointless conversation, trying to commit every second to memory, I spent my last night with my family at the dinner table. Later, I had surreptitiously retrieved my dusty backpack from the garage while clearing the kitchen table from dinner. Now, the rest of the house was asleep, leaving me alone to die.

That sounded much more dire than it really was. I remind myself that Darren, sleeping down the hall and not in a coronor's cabinet, was my doing. I saved my brother's life, and that was worth any sacrifice.

But I don't have the emotional capacity to debate the choice I already made, not right now.

I am an adult, in the eyes of the law and myself. As such, I do not passively wait for my reaper to come. I make good use of the time I have left as the moon climbs higher.

The external-frame pack sits on my bed, and as I fill it, I putter around my room with anxious energy. Darren's blood has really made a difference. I feel like I can go like the Energizer Bunny. Or maybe it's those freaky scarves of light, jolting me with power like I stuck my finger in an electric socket.

Taking my best photo album off my shelf, I resist the urge to flip through all the vacations, candids, and memories. If I do, I'll likely start to cry again. I have little time before Crepsley comes for me.

I pack a spare toothbrush from my adjoining bathroom and various toiletries, making sure nothing will be missed. Rumaging in my dresser, I pack my sturdiest clothes, some weather gear, and my hiking boots from the bottom of my closet. The dark brown Gortex is rough to my sensitive fingers, much like Crepsley's tongue had been when he...

_Whoa. Back to the task, Adrienne._

I had worn the boots for two shakedown hikes last summer, breaking them in for my eventual Appalachian Trail venture. Those hikes had only been a few days apiece, but the knowledge gleaned from them and several how-to books had prepared me. Now, I applied that experience to my unforseeable future.

Funny how my idea of my future has changed. Two days ago, my hazy vision of 'later' had consisted of six more years of school, possibly a boyfriend, and finding a job at a law office. Now, all that I saw in my future was a certain redheaded vampire with a helluva scar on his cheek. I hated how unintentionally romantic that sounded._ That ginger bastard has basically killed me._

My window is open because it is stifling hot in my bedroom. A voice comes from it, making me jump out of my skin. "Good evening."

I whirl superbly fast. "Cre- ! Erm, Mr. Crepsley." Speak of the devil, and he shall apear: widow's peak and all.

The vampire climbs into my window, wearing a blood-free red coat, every bit the pervy carnival guy with a sophmore fetish. I am struck by just how grimy and messed-up he looks, from wild stand of curls to unwashed skin. Wouldn't my dad just shit kittens if he knew there was a middle-aged (looking) man in my bedroom? "Shh, the 'rents are asleep," I urge, hiding my sudden flutter of nerves.

"I know," he stage whispers mockingly. "Or I wouldn't have come in."

"Don't you need, like, an invitation or something to enter my house?" I ask tersely.

"Nope. That's bullshit." Looking critically around my room, his eyes land on the backpack. "Going somewhere?" he queries testingly.

I frown irritably. "With you, I assume." Evening's off to a stellar start. He picks up right where we left off, like I _haven't _spent a day saying goodbye to my life. His presumptuousness perturbs me. "Is a backpack going to be a problem?"

"So long as nothing in it will be missed by your family. We still have to fake your death, remember," says the redhead.

"I know," I reply frustratedly, shoving an envelope of cash into my pack. "And just how are we going to do that?"

"With this," he says, drawing a vial out of his inner pocket. It looks much like the one that held the antidote.

"What is that?" I ask, zipping the pack up and testing its weight, trying to shove down my anxiety.

"It will make you, in all aspects, appear dead," says Crepsley.

"I've got a few things to go over before we continue," I say, forcing myself to squarely face him.

He tilts his head curiously. "Alright."

"What happened back at the theater - that was not a normal thing."

"You mean the blackened veins and passing out? No, indeed not. But then, you are the only vampire I have ever turned personally, so it might be specific to the mingling of our blood."

"Half-vampire," I correct, crossing my arms. "I'm still part human. And what do you mean, the only vampire you've turned?"

Crepsley paces to my bookshelf, studying the framed photos, awards, and trophies. "I mean it as I said it."

That opens up a whole 'nother can of worms. "Then what the hell possessed you to turn _me?_"

"I have needed an assistant for some time now," he tells me easily, picking up my geode bookend. "You were convenient."

_Convenient. _Oh, that pissed me off beyond words. "You mean to tell me you ruined my entire life because it was convenient?" I struggle not to snarl the words.

"In essence, yes."

I turn my back to him, bracing my hands on my vanity to keep from wrapping them around his throat. The wood is like clay to my supernaturally strong fingers, and I let go when my thumbs dent the underside with a loud cracking sound. "Damn it!" I let my frustration out with the curse.

Crepsley is beside me in an instant. "You... have you already had blood?" he asks incredulously.

I put some space between us, still feeling murderous. "Yeah, so?"

"How?" he demands. "When?"

"Darren was getting blood drawn at the hospital. I swiped a vial."

Crepsley relaxes marginally. "I was hoping you had not resorted to live feeding. That is dangerous for a new vampire. You could lose control and kill somebody, if you don't do it properly."

"I don't think I'll be ready for live feeding, ever," I respond hotly, looking at my mirror. Apparently, vampires and half-vampires do have reflections.

"You will, when you get hungry enough," he replies. Again, the black-and-white tone of his voice rattles me.

"I'm not a full vampire!" I insist. "I'm not like you, not entirely. I can still chose differently." The aching hunger pangs and overwhelming instinct to feed I had felt in the hospital don't count. I needed to feed then to solidify the curse in my bloodstream. It was Folklore 101. I had to believe that the next time, I would be able to stomach some alternative to live feeding. I couldn't bear the thought...

"I'm not going to waste our time arguing," Crepsley says dispassionately. "Your body will do the chosing, whether you like it or not."

I motion down at myself. "I am not beholden to _this._"

"Whatever you say, Adrienne."

The second time he uses my name, and it's sarcastically. Figures. I imagine our relationship is not going to be very cordial. Angrily, I snatch a hairbrush off my vanity and stalk over to my backpack, shoving the implement inside. Oooh, he makes me want to punch him! He acts like everything is set in stone. I've already broken the norm with my transformation: the blood ingestion, the scarves of light, the repression of my healing. Why not believe I can continue that precociousness?

Sensing my tension, he backs off for a few minutes, quietly occupying himself with a Rubix cube off my bookshelf. Slowly, I simmer down, continuing to pack odds and ends.

"So, I know I'll be travelling with the Cirque," I start. "What will be my..." I fish for the right word. "...duties?"

"Everything being an assistant entails," Crepsley replies, putting the completed Rubix cube back in its place. "Keeping up Madam Octa, my costume, et cetera. Also, when you're not doing that, you'll be required to pull your weight around the Cirque. Everyone pitches in."

I nod grimly, processing. It sounds domestic, ticking the feminist inside me, but I swallow her down. "Fine."

"My role will be to teach you how to be a vampire. Our race has laws, rules to abide by under penalty of death."

"Just how does a vampire die?" I ask. "I hate to use the 'stake to the heart' cliche."

"Stake would work quite well, actually," replies Crepsley, leaning against my wall and watching me waste time. "So will a bullet, fire, decapitation... anything severe enough, really."

"Then what's the difference between a human and a vampire?"

"Vampires can take an extreme amount of punishment before dying. As you've already found, we're much stronger, physically. We can flit, see in the dark, and hear much better than humans."

"And heal with your spit," I remark, glancing at my faintly scarred fingertips.

He hesitates a beat. "Yes. On a related note, the reason your change is so markedly different might be because you're female."

I bark a half-laugh. "Really? Vampirism is sexist?"

"You are biologically different. There are very few female vampires," he says carefully, thumbing through another of my photo albums.

"Why is that?" I ask, resisting the urge to snatch the album from his hands.

"The vampire world is always difficult, mostly cruel, and a constant fight. Everything useless is discarded."

"So?" I reply offhandedly. "That's life in a nutshell, really. Male or female, struggle is universal."

His mouth quirks. I'm beginning to recognize the motion as a repressed smile. "I suppose so."

I fall silent as I stare down at my backpack. Am I forgetting anything? Socks, bras, toothbrush... a bright and sunny future filled with bar exams, a career, a husband, and a family.

"Question," I state.

"Yes?" says the vampire in that deep timbre. I hear him flip a page in the album.

"Can vampires have children?"

He pauses, seemingly unnerved. "No. They cannot have children with each other or humans."

My head hangs. I feel like I've suffered a blow to the stomach. No kids, ever? No little ones to carry on my legacy? Sure, I might not be in the market for kids now, but someday...

Now, that someday is extinguished like a candle flame. That possibility, gone for good.

Crepsley's hand falls on my shoulder. "Another reason women do not often become vampires. Most do not want to give up their maternal instincts."

Although I shouldn't, I take some comfort in his touch. "Some men, too, I imagine," I say, my chin trembling.

The vampire's grip tightens momentarily. "If I had the choice again..." he says softly.

With a sniffle and a sigh, I tell this revelation to take a number in mourning's waiting room. It'll have to wait in line.

Crepsley's hand drops, and he clears his throat. "Are you ready?" he asks.

I turn around, and he's holding out the vial of dark liquid.

Slowly, I take it, and with soul-deep reluctance unstopper it. "Will you make sure I get that bag back, please?" I ask, nodding at the backpack.

Crepsley reaches behind me, shouldering the heavy pack with ease as his reply.

Peering into the vial with a sudden, violent bout of nerves, I ask, "W-will I be able to feel? Will I have my mind?"

"You will be paralyzed and unable to feel. Your mind will be numb, but you will still be able to think."

"Great," I mutter. "What about coronors? What if they try to embalm me?" Being unable to move while they pump turpentine into my veins sounds terrifying.

"I will see to it they have no cause to," he replies obscurely. Sensing that I am not comforted, he tips my head with a finger under my chin. "Do not worry, Adrienne," he says, with more genuine feeling than I thought him capable of. "Do not fear death. I will be watching out for you."

With his seagreenen eyes piercing mine and bigger things to worry about than his lingering fingertip, I whisper, "I hope so."

"Trust me," he says. Removing the errant finger, he splays his hand over my face, balancing his ring and index fingers over my eyes with his thumb and little finger spread wide. "We vampires have a saying: Even in death, may you be victorious."

With a twitch of my mouth, I reply, "Let's hope."

Crepsley takes back his hand. For a split second, I stare into the contents of the vial. My new life looms ahead of me, and my old one is fading to shadows. This is the hazy in-between. Once I do this, there is no going back.

Closing my eyes, I murmur to everything and everyone of that old life, "Goodbye."

Then I down the vial in one go. It tastes like sour grapes with a rotten blueberry aftertaste, but no worse than some cheap wine I've partied with. Crepsley's image starts to blur almost immediately. Coldness starts to creep into my extremities, gliding up my body like icy snakes.

"Oh," I remark, finding my limbs heavy and unwieldly. At the same moment my vision fails completely, my legs give way.

I feel two strong arms grab me before I hit the ground. "Wow, you metabolize fast," Crepsley comments, manuevering me into a bridal style pose. I feel rather than see us move towards the window. Distantly, I wonder, _What are you doing, Crepsley?_

"Here is where I ask you to implement whatever small trust you have in me," says the vampire, slipping us through the window. "I'm sorry, but your death must be convincing."

Momentarily, I feel his arms tighten around me and his head duck in a semblance of an apologetic embrace. I'm so caught up in the feeling of my internal systems shutting down that I do not grasp it until he is laying me down on the hard shingles of the porch roof.

He grabs my head in both hands, and twists. Mentally I shout with surprise, but there is no pain: only a bone-on-bone grinding sensation and a wet snapping sound.

"I'll sneak into the funeral home later and fix your neck," he says with an absurb amount of casualness. "There's no damage to your spinal cord."

_Remind me to throttle you, _I think savagely.

Then he kicks my shoulder, and I start to roll down the roof.

_Oh, hell. _

I keep right on rolling, tip over the edge, and land hard in the landscaping. Again, there is no pain, only vague sensations.

_Son of a bitch. I thought he said my mind would be numb. _There is nothing left to do but wait for my 'corpse' to be discovered.

The moon goes down. The sun peeks over the horizon. Birds start to sing, and cars start to drive out of the neighborhood taking kids to school and adults to work. I lay in the bushes with the scent of mulch invading my nostrils.

* * *

I wish that damn drug had worked enough to deaden my ears, not just my eyes. If it had only made me deaf, I might have gotten through without such agony.

The first sound I heard other than a neighborhood awakening was my father's scream. A grown man, much less my dad, making a noise that shocked, pained, and utterly broken would bring tears to the eyes of anyone.

Except my tear ducts weren't responding, at the time.

His cry brought mom and Darren running. Dad beat them to my side, rolling me over. He sobbed when my head flopped unnaturally. Mom collapsed into hysterics, and Darren could barely get his sobs past his lips due to their earthshaking ferocity.

There was much hugging of my 'dead' body. I yearned with every fiber of my being to pop up and hug them back, tell them I wasn't really dead. But that would only put me back at square one: a monster with a blood addiction, primed to kill and maim, destroying them with my secret before they found out and annihilating our happy family once they knew.

The only soothing thing I have to latch on to is that, deep down, I know this is for the best. The pieces are in motion. It's out of my hands.

I hear the neighbors gather and mill, wondering what happened, how in the world, poor Adrienne. Eventually, the sound of an ambulance's heavy diesel engine drowns out the heartbreaking mournings of the three people I love most on the planet.

I try to fortify myself as the EMTs pronounce me dead and zip me into a body bag. Hopefully, Crepsley is upholding his promise to look out for me in my current state. Even though it is daytime, where he presumably cannot venture, I trust his word. Momentarily, I remember the feel of his fingers on my face.

The ambulance doors close and the vehicle departs my yard, without sirens.

In the quiet, I grapple with my feelings. I've never died before: what's the social protocol? _I'm not even their real child. I'm a burden financially. I break the rules. _These thoughts and more make me feel guilty. Is guilt the proper emotion?

_I saved their son's life, my _brother's _life. It came with a price that seems to get steeper and steeper, but it was worth it. He'll live. He'll make them proud parents._

There, that feels a bit better. Come to think of it, they don't care how I feel. I'm dead. I can feel however I want.

_I'm a half-vampire with awesome powers, _I think to myself fiercely. _Even though those powers are repressed, they are there. I will find them, and learn how to hone them from Crepsley, and become a freakin' freak at this Cirque._

_Mom, dad... I know you wanted only the best for me. You gave me everything. Now, I give you back your son. I need only one more thing from you: freedom._


	6. Chapter 6

After the EMTs unload me at the funeral home, they leave me in the care of a jovial man who signs off on my body. He sounds way too happy to be a funeral home director, in my opinion. Aren't they supposed to be like Lurch off the Adam's Family?

When we are alone, things get a little creepier. He tapes my eyes shut, pulls back my hair. Although I can only hear him and faintly smell him with my superbly developing senses, I know I wouldn't want to be left alone with this guy when I was alive. Sketch Factor: level orange.

"Now, then, Miss Adrienne," he says, in a voice that sounds like a bubbling tar pit. "Let's get you gussied up. You're going to have a guest, soon. For eternity."

_Um, excuse me? What the hell does that mean?! And why are you talking to a corpse? _

The man scuffles around in the room, his shoes sounding odd. Mentally, I frown. What are those shoes made of? Rubber? Odd guy...

When he returns to my side, I sense him holding something over my face. With one greasy hand, he pulls my chin down, opening my mouth.

At this point, I'm shrieking inside.

Something _wet_ drips into my mouth, and I am losing my shit because I have NO CLUE what it is. It tastes salty and thick, and that's all my deadened tongue will tell me. Is he one of those necrophiliacs I read about in Psych 201? Oh God, what is that stuff...?

"There, all done," he cooes, closing my mouth. I hear him stomp open a trashcan, toss something inside, and walk out with a really disturbing whistle.

Eventually, I calm down. The taste of whatever he dripped into my mouth fades, and I don't feel any different because of it. _Maybe it's some wierd corpse-treatment proceedure, _I tell myself. _But what did he mean by 'having a guest for eternity'?_

The room, and as far as I can tell the entire building, is pretty peaceful. Must be a slow time of year for undertakers. After several hours and the sun hitting apogee, during which time my attempts to move are met with stunning failure, I hear two women coming down the hall. One of them is my mom.

The corpse technician, a taciturn female who mouth breathes, helps my mother dress me for presentation. I'm a little distraught about being naked in front of my mom and a stranger._ But hey, at least it's all girls here, _I console myself as they finagle a bra around my ribs.

All I can tell about the fashion choice is that it's a dress and heels. Having never worn heels in life, I don't know what possessed mom to force them on me in death, but it was hardly my choice. My brain spits out an old saying, 'Live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse'. I guess that applies to me, now.

The technician clumsily tries to relax mom with meaningless cliches and what sounds like a hanky. "I'll handle her makeup, Mrs. Shan. Please, go home and try to get some rest."

Mom's hand strokes mine. "I don't want to leave her."

"We all have to leave eventually, ma'am," says the technician, in a sudden show of wisdom that floors me. Until I realize she means all the employees at the parlor.

Mom shudders herself to composure, lays a sorrowful kiss on my cheek, and leaves. I'm kind of proud of her.

The technician does my makeup (much less makeup than I had expected, I am proud to say), then flips off all the lights and locks the door behind her. I am alone with my thoughts once again, but this time, they do not tear up my mind like ravenous wolves. Instead, they lend themselves to quiet contemplation, and even logical wondering about what this new life will entail.

Dare I say that I'm starting to get the tiniest, itty-bittiest bit excited? What will travelling with a freak show, learning from a vampire, and being a part of this strange and strong race be like?

The technician had done a shoddy job making my head lie normally. She'd made it look alright, sure, but she had not pushed the bones back together. I'm still stuck in neutral, with my body showing no sign of responding yet. Hours pass, and I wonder if Crepsley will keep his promise. Sure enough, in the thoughtful stillness of the funeral home, I hear a window creak open above me, a soft rustle of fine fabric, and a pair of bare feet hit the floor lightly.

There is the sound of some draws rolling open. "Aha," says Crepsley. Plastic and sterile paper rattling skitters through my ears, then a slurping sound. _Ugh, what the hell _now, _old man? _

Crepsley walks to my head and realigns my neck bones with a grinding sensation. There is a very distant pinch in my neck. "A shot of my saliva," he explains. "Since you can't heal yourself."

It occurs to me that Crepsley is a seriously gross character. Or, maybe it's the religion of bodily fluids that vampires ascribe to. Despite my internal icking, I feel my cerebral vertebrae itch and begin to fuse, a beautiful relief despite my paralysis.

"Your funeral is in eight hours," he murmurs, knowing I can hear him, even though my eyes are taped shut. "I'll dig you up once night comes. Sweet dreams."

My previous urge to throttle him returns, and I wish my fingers responded to my desire to flip him off. I had not realize yet that they were going to actually bury me! This shifty, cruel vampire left out a lot of details!

I have the rest of the night to think of ways to get my revenge. I have to learn from him: I can accept that, on an adult level. But do I have to be the perfect student? Hardly. Crepsley's in for a helluva shock if he thinks I'm going to roll over for him...

* * *

The funeral is damn depressing. Everyone cries, the preacher laments my early death, and I can smell the sun baking everyone in their black clothes, especially when they lean into my casket to awkwardly but bravely embrace my cool, stiff figure.

I can't tell who is who in the procession past my open casket, through all the sweat and heavy perfumes. Only when they speak can I decipher who they are.

"Save a lawn chair for me," says Bryan, my tenth grade boyfriend. We'd partied after his football games, and some of my fondest highschool memories came from being around his backyard pool, sitting in lawn chairs.

"I'm going to miss you, girl," whispers my best friend, Anna. She'd made the trip, all the way from her out-of-state college, to say her goodbyes. I hope that my 'death' won't disrupt her studies, because if she wants to get into nursing school, she can't afford distractions.

"Love you, sis," croaks Darren, sounding wrecked. He slips something into the pocket of my dress, squeezes my frigid hand, and moves on. As soon as my fingers can move again, I vow to investigate what he just gave me.

Mom and dad repeat his sentiments, but they linger the longest, crying quietly. My heart breaks for them.

The service wraps up, and everyone leaves. Sadly, I almost wish they would stay. It occurs to me that to be mourned and missed is a double-edged sword when both parties are alive to experience it.

I have several minutes of just laying in my coffin under the shade of the funeral parlor's tent, the scent of my flowers carrying on the sunny breeze. If this is what death is like, it sure is peaceful. I don't mind it at all. _Even in death, may you be triumphant..._

I had expected to be buried immediately. Instead, two Latinos come up, talking too rapidly for my Rosetta Stone lessons to decipher, and wheel me back towards the funeral home.

I'm still arrayed for presentation when they put something heavy and gangly on top of me, still chattering and occasionally laughing, like two guys just doing a job. _What the hell? _I still can't see, and it's starting to really irk me. They have to force the lid down, because the addition makes the coffin a tight fit. What did they just put in MY coffin with me? Whatever it is, it's going to the grave along with me.

Then, it's back outside into the sun. They bolt down the lid to my casket. I hear a winch lowering me into the pre-dug hole, the sound of a backhoe announcing its reverse gear, then a loud _whumpf! _as a bucketful of dirt lands on top of me.

Soon, there is no sound at all. The part of me that craved solitude enough to want to hike the Appalachian Trail relishes it. Internally, I laugh. Of course, the moment I'm dead, I get all the aloneness I want!

Hours pass. I spend them wondering what this heavy thing is on top of me. My fingers start to respond to my urgings to move, and although whatever is on top of me keeps me mostly still, I can flex my muscles and drive the drug from my system. I can't get the proper angle to investigate whatever Darren left in my pocket: my elbows keep hitting the velvet lining of the coffin. The thing on top of me, however, feels smooth save for some bristles and slightly squishy. My mind must be playing tricks on me, because I can't fathom what in tarnation it might be.

I can sense night fall, though I am not sure how. Must be a vampire thing.

Then, high above me, there is a rhythmic scratching sound. A shovel. My new teacher is coming for me.

The scratching gets closer and closer at a steady and unyielding pace. I'm itching to be free and get this heavy thing off me, even though I liked the solitude. There is a thud, the impact of a shovel on my coffin, and then the lid comes up to reveal a grinning Crepsley, widow's peak and all. "Wakey, wakey - oh." He smirks. "Should I leave you two alone for a moment?"

I glare at him from my velvet lining. What's he talking about...?

By the light of the moon above my grave, I look down and behold the mystery weight. It is the body of a dead man, his sunken face extremely close to mine, his short hair tickling my shoulder.

"YUCK!" I shriek, bolting upright. Drug and repressed powers be damned. I leap out of that coffin in an incredible display of vampirism, springing so hard that I land on the edge of my grave. "Oh! Gross! Ugh!" Frantically, I rub the germs off my body, making successively more disturbed sounds as the situation sets in. "Ew, ew ew ew ew EW!"

Crepsley is bent double, the son of a bitch, and _laughing at me. _

"You bastard!" I screech, trying to scrub the ickiness off the affected skin. "You left me to fend for myself at a creepy-ass funeral home!"

He can't find breath to answer me around his guffaws, so I continue.

"The director put something _in my mouth!_ And they buried me with SOMEBODY ELSE!"

"I'm sorry," he gasps, still beside himself with hoots. "I knew this home was too cheap to embalm, but I didn't know they double-stacked coffins too!" Still chortling, he haphazardly rearranges my companion in my coffin, closes the lid, and follows his shovel out onto the cusp of the hole.

The first thing I do when Crepsley faces me is punch him in the nose. It isn't a hard blow due to the lingering weakness of the dead-to-the-world drug, but I get immense satisfaction in watching him jerk back with surprise, a few drops of blood hitting his off-white shirt. "Damn," he says delicately, pinching the bridge of his nose.

I let my daggering eyes do my talking for me.

He glowers at me as he realigns his bones with a faint crackle. "Satisfied?" he asks snidely.

"Somewhat," I reply, just as snidely. I roll my stiff shoulders and flex my fingers. The throb of my punching hand is practically a joy, because it means I got the drop on him. "Took you long enough," I complain on principle, cracking my fully healed neck.

He ignores the comment, also on principle. "Your family was quick to get you in the ground," he replies nonchalantly, stabbing the shovel into the soft soil. "All total, only twenty-four hours."

My burial heels sink into the fresh dirt so I take them off, balancing with a hand on his arm to keep from tipping back into my yawning grave. "That is pretty quick," I reply. Although I should be glad they buried me so quickly, a part of me wonders why they were so eager to put me in the ground.

Oh, who am I kidding? What use does any family have for the corpse of a loved one?

"I never knew how shitty this funeral home was until I was going through it," I said, digging my toes into the soft dirt. Earthy bliss! The volunteer farm time has made me appreciate good ground.

"They might have actually tried to embalm you, in another parlor."

"So you weren't positive I wasn't going to be twice-killed? I can't believe you," I mutter. I run a hand through my hair in frustration at the vampire. Mom must have curled it while fixing me up for burial. She chose a dress that was my favorite shade of blue, off one shoulder and draping to just below my knees in simple, elegant folds. We always did swear we could shop for each other.

"Here," Crepsley says, interrupting my nostalgia by handing me the shovel. "Fill that hole."

I take the shovel, but only out of instinct. "I don't have to do anything you tell me," I declare. Time to implement the plan I spent a day and night cooking up.

Crepsley cocks his head at me. "Pardon?"

"Do I need to repeat myself?" I ask condescendingly.

"Surely you remember our agreement," he replies blithely, slowly creeping closer, seagreen eyes simmering. "I provide you with the antidote to save your brother, and leave him safe, alive, and 100% human. In return, you become a half-vampire and my assistant."

I stand my ground, staring up into his predatory gaze unflinchingly. Geez, he's tall. "What were my _exact _words of agreement in the theater? After you told me to speak up?"

The gaze flickers. "You said 'I'll become a half-vampire!'" His eyes fall shut, and he grimaces. "You never agreed to be my assistant."

"Damn," I thrust the shovel back into his hands. "Right." _That's what you get for leaving me with so much time to think._ I discovered what had been nagging me, all along.

As I stalk off towards the entrance to the graveyard, he calls after me, "I'm not filling back up _your _grave!"

"I'm certainly not doing it," I reply, sashaying in my sexy blue death dress with my heels swinging in my hand.

"Fine," he says silkily. "Then your family will be on the hunt for your graverobber, as restless as they believe you are, and will never heal from your death."

I stop, my spine turning to rebar. Whipping around, I stride back towards him, fire filling me. "How dare you," I snarl venomously, getting in his face. "How dare you use my family against me, over and over again?"

His look is chilling, but inscrutable.

Sullenly, I drop my shoes and hold out a hand.

He passes me back the shovel.

"Damn you," I growl, starting to shovel the dirt. Hot tears fill my eyes.

"Let me be perfectly clear, Adrienne Star," says Crepsley in that cursed black-and-white tone. "I am bound by vampire law to mentor you in the ways of our race. But if you want this arrangement to be congenial in any way, or learn anything from me of importance, you will do as I say."

I take a very long time to respond, biting my tongue. My flush of victory and my ire fade away after half the dirt is replaced with metronomic pace. As a human, such a task would have proven difficult without rest. As a half-vampire, it is considerably easier. "In human law," I start softly. "Such an arrangement is called 'quid pro quo'. For something given, something is received."

The vampire does not respond until two more feet of dirt have been added on top of my occupied coffin. "Full moon tonight," he says absently. I know, then, that he has forgiven my bid for freedom.

I lean on the shovel, staring up at the glowing pearly orb. "I thought it was full two nights ago."

"Your human eyes couldn't detect the imperfection. Now, you can."

Regarding the moon in such perfect, crystaline detail is amazing. Every crater and pore on its luminous surface seems made of ice. Why can't everything bathed in such kindly light become kind in turn? The shine of it reminds me of the scarves of light that seem to pop up when least expected.

Hopefully, Crepsley will address that when he starts to teach me.

"There," I say a few minutes later. "Done." A better mound of dirt could not be found in this graveyard.

Crepsley brushes past me and rearranges the flowers on my grave. Three roses, all red. I'm touched, but try not to let the emotion spread. The smooth, dove-grey granite of my gravestone draws my hand. It reads:

_Adrienne Star_

_January 10, 1992 - August 30, 2012_

_REST IN PEACE_

_Loving daughter and sister_

Standing back up, I sigh and dust off my hands. "I'm ready, if you are."

He pauses at my abruptness, but turns around. "Very well. Get on my back."

Studying the logistics of such a position leads me to conclude my dress will not allow it. Stupid fashion. "Hang on," I mutter, tugging at the fabric.

At the sound of tearing cloth, he glances over his shoulder. I've used my nails to make a deep split in the side of my dress. I catch his eyes widening slightly at the show of leg, but he does not comment.

"Oh," I say with surprise. My pocket tore open with my nails, and something fell onto the ground. Picking it up, I finally see what my brother slipped me: a beautiful stone, green and blue swirling together on the smooth surface, threaded with a cord. "Blue jasper," I murmur, clutching it to my breast. "You know - knew - me well, Darren."

"Tonight, Adrienne," sighs Crepsley impatiently.

With familiarity comes grace, so I bounce onto his back with ease.

But my damn conscience won't let me rest. "I'm sorry," I mutter, so quietly I thought he might not have heard it. "Just... give me some time."

He catches my eye over his shoulder, solemn and strong. "I told you I would look out for you. I keep my promises, Adrienne."

I inhale as I feel his muscles all tense at once, and we flit off into the night.

This ginger bastard has killed me, twice-over. He's ripped me from my life with selfish intent, and sewn me into an ill-fitting existence that my own body has yet to accept. He is arrogant, snide, mocking... and simultaneously kind, tolerant of my bitchiness, and understanding of my predicament. He has both licked my wounds and shoved me off a roof.

I don't know what to make of him.


	7. Chapter 7

We flit for about an hour. My legs and arms are burning with the effort of holding on, and my eyes are drying out, but my spirit feels unequivocally free. This is better than a motorcycle ride, more awesome than the top down on my convertible VW Bug. I'm a queen on her steed, clothed with regality and carried with nobility. I smile into the nape of Crepsley's neck, wondering how he would take to the thought of being my snorting, prancing mount.

Am I allowed to feel momentarily happy? Is it acceptable to procrastinate my worries into some shadowed box in the dustiest corner of my brain? I think so. In fact, it might be wisest to open that box when I am capable of rifling through its rabid, whirlwind contents without interruption. Perched on the back of my new teacher is not the place or time to think about my family, trying to sleep in their beds, a fridge full of sympathy food nobody wants to eat, and a wastebasket full of used tissues...

No. Not here, not now.

The world whizzes by, oblivious to my pain. I come out of my reverie forcibly.

We are zipping along in the shallow woods next to a desolate nighttime highway.

"May I ask where we're going?" I say, wind whipping my hair across my face.

Crepsley draws to a sudden halt, panting slightly. The scent of pine saturates the air. "To the Cirque du Freak. They are camped at their summer site in Pennsylvania."

I readjust my hold, and Crepsley answers with a shifting of the hands behind my knees. "Hey, where's my backpack?" I ask, purposefully keeping the accusation out of my voice.

"I sent it ahead of us, with my friend." He is distractedly looking up and down the highway for something. He carries us down the slight embankment towards the road, hopping the ditch smoothly.

I frown. "I thought you were the only one to stay behind." For the express purpose of tormenting and manipulating me, of course. But that's implied.

"No," Crepsley replies, walking us closer to a green sign above the road, his stride long as we pace to the middle of the deserted asphalt, straddling the dotted line with his bare feet. "I needed my friend's help to arrange your burial."

Hesitantly, suspecting I'll regret asking, I query, "How did he help you?"

"He hypnotized your family into sending your corpse to that particular funeral parlor, so I could keep an eye on you."

In favor of something clicking into place in my head, I tamp down my annoyance at someone messing with my folks' brains. "Was this friend, by any chance, the Mr. Tall that opened for the Cirque?"

To trace the origin of our tumultuous relationship to that night, just three days ago, seems somehow perilous. "Yes, it was," he replies, craning up to read the shiny metal sign. "You saw him control the Wolfman, correct?"

"So his thing is mind control?"

"Among other things," he says, letting the conversation taper off. I contemplate the words glowing on the sign, wondering what someone would think if they drove past us right now. A prom night tragedy piggy-backing a homeless thespian wouldn't garner too much curiosity, right? The world feels empty tonight, like we are the only ones in existence. Judging by the sign above our head, we're somewhere in northern Virginia.

"I've never been out of the state," I murmur wondrously.

"There is a rest stop a mile ahead," Crepsley interrupts my thoughts. "Would you like a break?"

How considerate. His waist is narrow and firmly muscled (blush), but I still have to grip it with my thighs... Whoa, inappropriate thoughts. Not to mention unfounded. "Sure, I could use a stretch."

His flaming head of hair nods, giving me time to inhale and hold, and we're off. Half a minute later, we're stopping again in the outskirts of the woods. The rest stop is as empty as the highway, brightly lit, and welcoming. I slip off his hips and promptly collapse to the curb, hissing as my muscles and pelvic joints complain.

"Sore?" he asks, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

_Holy innuendo, Batman. _"Why, Mister Crepsley," I drawl, folding my legs to the side with a wincing grin. "Is that a perverted joke?"

His grin widens, turning him from tough and gnarly to mischievous and merely scruffy. I blush and shake my head, trying to remind myself to be angry at him.

"Will the cameras be a problem?" I ask, tactfully changing the subject and scanning the light poles.

"Not for me, as a vampire," he replies. "I only show as a blur, due to a special vibration in my atoms. All vampires are like that. You, on the other hand, are still in transition, so - " He slips out of his long, red coat. "This will help conceal you. No sense in unnecessary exposure."

I accept his hand and he pulls me strongly to my feet. The soreness is mostly gone. I had tied my heels into my dress's belt, so not to lose them during flitting, and now I slide them back on. The jacket is not too heavy, nor too light. The texture of the fabric suggests the owner travels, wants waterproofing, warmth without stifling, and toughness. It smells strongly of him.

"Thanks. I'll be right back."

He turns the collar of the coat up, and it covers the tips of my ears, concealing the majority of my face. "I'll be here."

As I clack across the parking lot, I inhale the scent of the jacket deeply, plumbing it for clues as to this vampire's personality. I smell sweat, but not offensive man-sweat. It's more like the smell of oak bark and smoke, with a hint of burned meat.

Curiously, it makes my stomach growl. I'll have to get a bite from the vending machines before we leave.

_I love my new nose, _I think, traipsing along the path to the restrooms. Along with my eyes and ears, my sense of smell seems to be gaining ground in the transformation department. I can scent the woodsy mulch in the beds I pass, the gleaming yellow daylilies, the stench of the garbage cans, the disinfectant of the bathrooms, and the faint traces of people, people everywhere.

Washing the dirt from under my fingernails, I look at myself in the small, square mirror. There is more dirt smudged on my face, so I dash water over my features. In the silence of the restroom, that cornered box of sadness rattles impatiently. I flick my hair behind my ears dismissively, then wet it back. Some of the water drips down my cleavage, around the blue jasper necklace. Darren...

_No. I will not cry here. _I grasp the pendant tightly and step towards the door, hurriedly outstripping my angst.

The half-structure that houses the vending machines is easy to spot. The vending machines pose a problem: my money was in my backpack, which is apparently with Mr. Tall in Pennsylvania. Crepsley's coat pockets yield a dead mouse (which causes me to squeak, shudder, toss it, and go wash my hands again), what looks like the canine of some large animal, and a several empty glass vials with a red residue.

Opening one, I take a cautious sniff. My senses light up like a Christmas tree. These vials had once contained blood. Crepsley must be drinking steadily to sustain the flitting. With somewhat misplaced guilt, I conclude it is harder for him to flit with a passenger.

Great, now I'm starving for something _else. _But I am separated from my satisfaction by a pane of grimy glass. Staring at the hulking box full of wonderfully unhealthy foods, a light bulb ticks on over my head.

Grabbing the corners of the machine, I tilt it towards me slowly in case I'm overconfident. It comes down with ease, and I give it an experimental rough shake. I laugh, because although the thing must weigh 500 pounds, I feel like I've benched heavier in my swimming years. Vampire strength is wicked cool.

With a few more noisy jostles, I tip the machine back into place and claim my prizes from the slot. A Reese's Cup, a Salt and Vinegar chips, and a pack of Mentos. "Dinner of champions," I mutter, sauntering out of the enclosure.

A young man nearly runs into me. I gasp, startled, and drop my things. "Oh!" I say breathlessly, bouncing off his personal space bubble. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, no problem," responds the man easily, bending down to help me retrieve my snacks. The smell of his cloying Axe spray cologne drowns out the sweet musk of Crepsley's jacket, and I can feel the smell starting to make my head hurt in seconds. He has handsome features and dark, wavy hair, but there is a strange glint in his eyes.

I realize I'm smudged all over with dirt, my dress is torn with unintentional allure, my cleavage is quite displayed, and I am, seemingly, alone. The hooker heels do not help.

"T-thank you," I mumble as he hands me back the bag of chips. I've got an awful feeling starting to twist my guts. I feel incredibly vulnerable, in my death dress and heels and borrowed jacket. He's twice my size, and my confidence in my strength flees. I don't like the way he's looking at me. Warning bells start to go off in my head. "'Bye," I say, walking around him.

"Wait a minute, gorgeous," he says, grabbing for my arm. I catch the movement out of the corner of my eye and dodge, my heart flying to my throat.

"Hey!" I exclaim, backpedaling as he moves to follow.

"You workin' tonight, beautiful?" he leers, grinning.

I take a breath to scream, but find it unnecessary. Crepsley has flown up behind my assailant, puffing into his fist, and slapping the laden hand over the man's mouth. The man falls like a marionette with the strings cut, straight into Crepsley's waiting arms.

I am unconsciously clutching my necklace over my heart, the bag of chips crumbled to greasy glitter in my hand.

"Are you alright?" asks the scarred vampire, laying the man down on the rough concrete.

I'm shaking uncontrollably, breathing hoarsely. "Y-yes," I manage, nodding vigorously around my dry throat. A snaking beam of light winds its way through the air towards me from Crepsley. When I notice it with horror and wish it gone, it dissipates just before my mentor looks at me again.

Crepsley eyes me critically for a moment, then scans the angles of the cameras. "Lucky," he says. "Quite lucky, Adrienne. If you had been in the range of the cameras, I could not have helped you."

"I thought you only showed up as a blur," I reply sourly. The scarf of light rears up again, this time from the man on the ground, but I focus and make it sink back into him. Even as I am relieved by this newfound basic control, I have to wonder: are the weird lights linked to my fear?

"Vampires exist, as ever and forever, on a secretive level," he says with stinging reprimand, bringing me back to the present harshly. "Any exposure, even momentary, is dangerous for the whole race."

"So you would've let me be assaulted by this bozo?" I say indignantly, toeing the sleeping man.

Crepsley's eyes flicker away, and he avoids the point. "Be alert, always, and mindful of your surroundings. The first aspect of your training will be in this."

The wary feeling that man had spawned in me is returning. "How so?" I ask cautiously.

"I will randomly attack you," he continues, warming to his idea. "So be on the lookout."

"No way. Nuh-uh." My hostility is growing.

"I am your teacher," Crepsley says, folding his arms. The black dress shirt is pulled over his strong-looking chest. _Focus, Adds. _"It is my responsibility to train you as a warrior, for vampires are a warrior race."

"Oh, God," I groan. "You mean I have to learn to fight, too?"

"Vampires do not wear capes and spook humans all the time," he replies wryly.

I scoff. "No shit."

"What was that?"

"No bathrooms."

"Pardon?"

"Not in the bathroom. Hard limit."

"Danger is everywhere, Adrienne."

"You'll have to trust me. Or get your nose broken again." I knew that punch a few hours ago would come in handy later.

Crepsley surprises me by throwing back his head and laughing.

_Damn it! Take me seriously! _I glower at him, irritated. Then I remember I have chocolate.

Steadying my hands' fading trembles, I rip open the package, biting with relish into one of the cups. Peanut butter chocolate bliss.

Crepsley has decreased to chuckles, now kneeling beside the unconscious man. He is tugging the Hollister shirt away from the man's shoulder/neck junction.

"What are you doing?" I ask with a pitch of panic.

"Taking my meal," he replies coolly. A pointed fingernail flicks over the exposed shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood.

I gasp and turn away, my mouthful of chocolate turning to ash. He does it so casually, callously. I feel like I've caught him naked, yet I'm the only one upset. I feel embarrassed, my cheeks flaming up, and now my enhanced senses work against me in analyzing every nuance of sound and scent afforded by his morbid act.

I can hear him suckling gently like a babe at the breast, and swallowing each mouthful patiently, enraptured by the bone-deep feeling of satisfaction. And I _know _how satisfying that blood tastes, how it sits warm and sloppy in the stomach, like soup that transcends the body's hunger and feeds even the soul.

Two hot tears soil my cheeks. I'm not going to be drawn into weakness by this misplaced sense of shame and disgust and hunger. It is one of many hurdles I will have to jump in this new life.

"Would you like to drink?" Crepsley asks from the ground behind me.

Thankfully, with a desecrated human being attached to the bloodlust skulking in my veins, my want for blood is tempered considerably. I force myself to swallow my Reese's cup. My favorite candy is ruined for me now. "No, thank you," I respond evenly.

A previous point of contention. He lets it slide, for now. "Hand my the vials in my coat pocket, assistant," he orders.

Anxiously, I delve my hands into the pockets and force myself to turn around, passing the empty vials to my mentor reluctantly. The man at the vampire's knee is slightly paler, and there is a trickle of blood running thinly down his shoulder, but otherwise, the scene is normal. "Are you going to kill him?" Please God, let him say -

"No," he replies fiercely, his scar pulled taut over his clenched jaw muscle. "That is utterly against the vampire laws and my personal code." He gestures to the pavement opposite the sprawled man. "Lesson one in feeding: save some for later. Watch."

His tone holds zippo room for argument. Slowly, I kneel as directed, the sidewalk rough to my knees, my borrowed jacket splayed behind me. In silence, I make myself watch. Crepsley unstoppers a vial and pinches the cut, directing the flow of the blood into the narrow vessel. If I cut through my own tumble of reflexive emotions, it doesn't seem so bad. The delicious smell of the ruby liquid helps. It is very safe to assume my repulsion for blood has been replaced by a moral hazard: the wrongness that stops my bloodlust cold.

I zero in on Crepsley's flashing seagreen eyes, which grounds me, turning over his previous statement. "So vampires don't kill their victims?"

The slight pulse of each tiny flood is fascinating to me. "We used to," he explains, carefully filling one vial and opening the next with his teeth. "Several hundred years ago, I and a few friends discovered and perfected a way of feeding that is less noticeable. Since vampires can exhale a knockout gas, it is simply a matter of taking less, but feeding more frequently. Hand me the next one, please."

Uncomfortable but caught in the moment nonetheless, I obey. "That sounds easy enough."

"The vampaneze disagree," Crepsley grumbles.

"Vampaneze?"

"A branch of vampires that drink to kill. They are currently held from war with us by a very new truce." Crepsley looks up at me with a pinning, stern expression. "If you ever meet a person with purple skin and red eyes, lips, fingernails, and hair, then run. You are no match for a vampaneze."

"Well, now your insistence on combat training seems less out of place," I mutter.

"Another vial, please. The vampaneze are respectable, in some ways," Crepsley says, frowning in concentration of his task. "They refuse to lie. They have a strong sense of honor. They kill their victims because they believe they are honoring them by claiming their souls."

I frown too, and pause. "I don't think there is anything honorable about killing."

The orange-haired vampire looks at me with a slight smile, and I feel like I've passed a test. "There is some hope for you yet, Adrienne." He closes the last vial and hands all of them to me. They are smooth and warm with their contents, and I gingerly replace them in his coat pocket.

"Truly, you should drink," Crepsley presses. "I've barely taken a pint. He can stand to deflate a bit more."

Against all odds, I find a momentary grin flashing over my face at his joke. "No, I'm good. I don't feel comfortable with it."

"You will have to, eventually," he insists, joking tone fading to annoyance. "Why so reluctant? You know what blood is like. You just make a little incision, and take a sip! It's very refreshing."

"It's not about the blood, it's about the _person,_" I try to explain my moral tangle with growing aggravation. "You act like it's so easy - "

"Because you need nourishment to stay alive," the vampire growls irritably. We lock eyes, a war of wills. So much for passing a test. Crepsley scoffs, "Foolish. You don't know when you'll be able to feed next." He gives the cut a firm lick, stemming the flow, and rockets to his feet with a glare. "I'm done here," he says gruffly, heaving the man's unconscious form over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "I'll arrange him in his car and meet you at the road."

I am relieved that the lesson is over, and the storm it spawned. I stalk to the nearest trashcan and dispose of my crushed chips and the remaining peanut butter cup, my appetite gone.

Numbly reeling, tottering on my heels, I walk slowly across the parking lot, waiting for him to finish up and follow me. Without the blood present to transfix me, I'm dumped unceremoniously back into my emotional flood.

I can accept that I need to drink blood to live. If I focus on how good it tastes and feels, I can almost forget it's blood. But if I remember it is from a human, or forced to drink straight from the vein, it would tear me apart. It would be crossing a line that I have no business crossing, and sacrificing yet ANOTHER piece of my humanity to the vampire within me.

To drink from a living human is to accept that I am not one of them anymore. My brain hits that wall and bounces off it uselessly, like a moth on a lightbulb.

It's so stupid! I prop my fists on my hips in frustration. Why do I feel like I've disappointed him? Why do I freakin' care? He's wronged me irreparably (all the ways in my dusty, cornered box, which I won't open, not now...)

I find myself standing at the edge of the empty highway, staring blankly up at the stars. "Not one damn inch," I swear to myself. "I'll not give in one damn inch. No live feeding, not ever."

Crepsley flits to my side with renewed energy. I tacitly hand him back his coat, repulsed by the comfort I'd once imagined in it.

"Ready to go?"

"Yes," I sigh.

He shakes his head as he puts the red coat back on. "He'll wake up with a slight headache and no memory of you or me," he says, mistaking my sigh for worry. Crepsley places a hand on my shoulder. "This is the way of the vampire, Adrienne. The way you chose with great recklessness and unabashed selflessness."

It might be a compliment. It might also imply that I'm just a stupid girl who threw away her life.


	8. Chapter 8

We continue to flit. I manage to lose myself in the hours, in the movement of his rapid run, in the blur of emotional ebb and flow, and the places that streak by us in the distance.

Through backyards, with grills and patios and disgruntled dogs.

Past depressed Laundromats, drug stores, and houses with bars on the doors.

Around the blazes of large cities, set like diamond eggs in a nest between interstate twigs and low mountains.

Through endless forest that reaches ancient auras towards my bruised and battered mind and soul, seeking to comfort me by swallowing my hurts, and me along with them. The forest bids me to lay down on its deceptively innocuous floor, to let the roots of trees tap me and to let my soul flow into the ground, into their trunks, their leaves... and finally up to the sky.

I tip back my head and exhale my sadness into the velvet night.

My handful of years in the Girl Scouts makes me examine the stars for direction, and the glittering specks inform me we are heading almost strictly north, unbound by traditional paths. The night is cool, but somehow, it seems to bother me less than normal, probably thanks to the vampire blood.

It's crazy, attributing these physiological changes to something that happened less than three days ago. Even stranger, something that now runs in my veins.

I have no idea when we cross county or state lines, except for when we pass a rare sign on an even rarer road. The trees give some indication as to region when they turn from imperial pine to mostly maple.

The first time Crepsley stops, he drops one of my knees, digs a vial out of his coat pocket, knocks it back like a Jello shot, and carries on in less than ten seconds. When he halts again a couple hours later, I am ready. I fish in the pocket under my thigh like a thief, withdraw the crimson vial, yank the cork out with my teeth and hold it before his face. Wordlessly, he takes the thing in his lips, downs the contents, and presses it back to my palm. His hands stay behind my knees.

The third time, we manage to coordinate the drink without even stopping, seamlessly putting the blood to his lips and returning the vessel empty to his pocket. I don't know if I should be, but somehow, it makes me proud. In perfecting the 'refueling' of the man who carries me, I hasten the growing of the gap between myself and my old life.

My old life didn't have maples, or this fly-by-night method of travel that thrills me, or, _God, _the _stars_. Wonderingly, my fingers reach out to capture and twirl a single leaf by its short petiole. I wish we didn't have to ever stop travelling. If we stop moving, I have to face reality.

Before I am ready, I see the pinking of dawn on the horizon. I imagine that will pose a problem.

"We must find a place to hole up before the sun rises," Crepsley says over his shoulder, confirming my thoughts. I'm surprised he can talk to me and keep from hitting the trees we run by.

"You don't sound too worried," I note.

"This is a shady area," he elaborates. "So the effects of the sun on me will be diluted. Uncomfortable, but diluted."

He slows to a sprint, then a jog, then a long-legged walk. Sniffing strongly, he seems to be searching for something. "We're in a Pennsylvania state park," he informs. "I've been here before. It's hardly travelled." He pauses and turns his head into an oncoming breeze. "Do you smell that, assistant?"

I inhale deeply, as much in imitation as it is to keep my composure at his manner of addressing me. "Smoke. From a campfire?"

"Correct. And though it smells old, we'll avoid it." Catching my eye over his shoulder, he asks with a grin, "Ready to dismount?"

I blush, narrowing my eyes with ire. "You're the one holding on to me."

His lips quirk (asshole just wanted a rise out of me) and he drops my knees. I slide to the ground, my feet landing in soft, crinkly tree detritus. I can make out the shapes of leaves and the pattern of trunks in the periwinkle light. This part of dawn feel wild, abuzz with energy, like the last hundred feet of a race's warmup lap. I take another deep breath, reveling.

"Hurry up, Adrienne!" calls Crepsley, who is disappearing into the brush. I hustle after him, chasing his broad, red back.

We come across a pleasantly rounded stand of trees with an understory of rhododendron that hides a hollow, moss-floored glade about ten feet wide.

"This will do," Crepsley says. As he kicks some leaves into a form long enough for his body, he instructs, "I will awaken naturally when the sun sets. From there, we can make it to the Cirque in under two hours." Eyeing me in that deductive way of his, he comments, "You look ready to drop. You should rest, too."

As soon as he mentions it, the tiredness in my body surges to the forefront of my mind. My eyes itch to close, and I have to stifle a yawn. I nod in agreement. The events of the past few days have taken a helluva toll.

He whips his coat off and lays down, pulling the garment over his face and body for the most coverage. He's too tall, though. "Cover my feet. They'll burn otherwise."

I rustle the tan and yellow slips into place, taking a moment of voyeurism. His feet are really messed up: unbelievably calloused, scarred, and with a pedicurist's nightmare for nails. I conclude he must go barefoot most of the time.

My own pale, soft feet, which are visible in the early light, have only got a few pertinent callouses from my hiking boots, and the contrast is marked. _But he doesn't rely on shoes, does he?_ The idea appeals to me, in a way. I decide that I will try to forgo shoes, as well. Not out of emulation, like I'm a six year old: because it's smart. When my nails harden and start to look like that, they'll tear up any shoes I attempt, anyway.

Plus, they're weapons. Toenails, that is. And climbing tools. I'm liking this idea more by the minute.

I crawl to the other side of the glen before I can be accused of staring. "Could I wake you up in an emergency?" I ask, breaking the quiet.

"If the forest is burning down, then yes. And if you wander, don't go too far." His tone implies I am an accident-prone pet that he has to keep watch on. I'm mildly insulted.

I'm too tired to care what I sleep on, so long as I can close my eyes. Exhaustion casts the fallen leaves in a comfortable, welcoming light. As I bed down under a rhododendron in a thick pile of leaves, I can't help but mutter, "God forbid you have to save me twice in a day."

When his covered form heaves in a longsuffering sigh, I realize he heard me. "You'll do well to note," he mumbles, sounding like he's drifting off. "That I checked the security cameras _after _coming to your aid."

I prop up on my elbow suddenly, my eyes raking his red-cloaked body for clues. _Does he mean that my safety is more important than his race's secret? _

_No. He means he rushed to help me without even thinking. _

The implications of that thought make my teeth momentarily clench, and I brush the thought aside roughly, hatefully. I don't want to like him. I may never like him beyond civility. The redheaded vampire has no right to solicit debt from me. "Thank you," I say, very softly, and without the grudgingness I feel. He did risk a lot by saving me.

He doesn't answer. I can tell he's out cold, leaving me to my devices.

I bury myself deeper in the leaves, which are blessedly free of bothersome bugs. _If I'd had my head on straight, _I think. _I would've fought off the guy myself. Or at the very least, led him to the parking lot and let Crepsley take care of him there. Instead, I froze with fear. _

Along with my vow of 'Not one inch given to the monster', I promise myself not to let fear keep me from acting ever again. This world that Crepsley is dragging me into will chew me up and spit me out, if I let it. It will not slow down or tolerate my hesitation. "No fear," I swear in a whisper heard only by the trees. It is nearly light, and my last thought is that the leaves are quite comfortable. _Like nature's Tempurpedic mattress. _

* * *

I wake up before Crepsley.

After a moment of sleepy confusion as to where I am, I figure it out when the scent of the forest floor fills my nose. I lay my head back down on my arm, desperately grasping for the tail of sleep and the comfort it brought. It dashes out of reach.

With a creaking stretch, I sit up and glance across the clearing. Crepsley hasn't budged an inch, but the wind has bared his toes. As I cover them again, I note thankfully they haven't had time to pink in the sun, which is throwing bars and beams of light through the openings in the canopy above.

I realize it's the first time I've seen the sun since I died. Stalking through the brush surrounding our glen, I find a puddle of light and stand in it, drunk on the warmth, the buzz of the rays over my skin.

Then my stomach growls, and puts an end to my meditation.

An idea occurs to me. Turning into the breeze, I inhale deeply, trying to retrace our steps from the night. There! A trace of smoke in the air. Maybe the campers left something at their site.

Picking my way barefoot takes too long, but I manage. Stepping on the occasional pinecone is a bitch, but I try to toughen up. Maybe a thousand pinecones from now, I won't be bothered.

I glimpse the campsite through the trees, and note that it is abandoned. There is a bare whisp of smoke rising from the ashes of the fire pit, but no people. I approach cautiously all the same.

"How disappointing," I mutter after poking around. Of all the campers to obey the 'leave it cleaner than you found it' rule, it had to be these. My stomach growls again plaintively.

Making my way back, I come across a grassy clearing with an eastern hedge draped with wild berries. Once more, Girl Scouts pays off. I know by the serrated leaves, thorns, type of flower, and the shape of the berry that it's wild blackberry. Plucking a fruit from the bush garners a few scratches. They're sour as hell, but it is still early for berries, so I can't blame the bush. I eat as many as I can find, staining my fingers purple, but it doesn't even dent my hunger.

Near the bottom of the bush, I find a stand of poison ivy the hard way. Hissing, I draw back my hand and wait for the redness to start. I'm terribly sensitive to poison ivy, to the point of instant welts.

A minute passes, then two. No welts, not even an itch. "I guess vampirism cured me," I mutter. "How 'bout them apples."

I know where I am, so I wander back to check on Crepsley. He's still out, but the sun is setting. I've got enough time to find some water, which my parched mouth cries for.

I walk until I find a hill, follow it down, and locate a puddle of standing water at the base, about six inches deep. It's left over from a storm maybe two nights ago, and by scent and sight I judge it safe. It probably wouldn't matter anyway: if being a half-vampire makes poison ivy useless against me, then I doubt some sour water would faze me. Cupping a handful to my mouth, I find it grassy and lukewarm, but drinkable.

I cup more handfuls up my arms and wash my legs. I'm debating taking my dress off completely when it occurs to me: living like a wild animal isn't so bad.

Sitting back on my bare heels, I marvel. Could it be I'm suited for this sort of living? If that's the case, I could run away from Crepsley now, live like this for the rest of my years!

Problem one: my years would be considerably more, now that I'm half-vampire. That would suck.

Problem two: damn Crepsley, but I would need to feed eventually. That would suck, again. Literally.

Problem three: my mentor would probably hunt me down. Bastard.

I sigh, and decide not to remove my dress. "Guess I can't be the crazy mountain lady, after all."

As I follow the sun back to our secluded glen, I take mental stock. "For the moment, I'm stable," I murmur, skirting a pine tree widely. "My body's in flux, and those stupid lights keep popping up, but for this very second, I'm okay."

_How long until I get depressed again?_ I think, lapsing into thoughtfulness. _No, the REAL question is what those lights are. What the hell? And suddenly I can tell them to beat it? _

I have no earthly clue what they are, other than supernatural and freaky. It's frustrating. "Should I tell Crepsley about it?" I ask the horizon. "No. He wouldn't believe me. Can he even see them?" I stop in midstride, taking advantage of the seclusion to pow-wow with myself aloud. I might not be in college anymore, but I can still apply the thought processes I learned there. "I know they're linked to my fear response, like fight-or-flight. I can make them disappear. They don't really affect me when they touch me, and I might be the only one able to see them." I snort. "Sounds like the definition of crazy, to me. Could it be some kind of psychotic break, due to this...?"

_Oh my God. I might be going crazy! _

"Phew. Oh, boy. Not good, not good," I mutter, walking in a circle, hugging myself. "If this is a temporary trip to Crazytown, I don't want to tell Crepsley about the lights. He'll probably bitch about me not drinking blood. And if it is fleeting, then I've got nothing to worry about, right?"

Back in the hospital bathroom a few days ago, when I'd first seen them, the scarves of light had come from the next room, where my parents and brother were. "Not a coincidence," I determine. "So humans can't see the lights, they're related to vampirism, and maybe tied in with my hunger?"

I'm working on theory and supposition. I need evidence.

I make it back to the glen, and Crepsley's still unmoved like a fucking corpse. The sun's maybe a half-hour from letting him rise, so I quietly seat myself where I slept and look at his covered form intently.

_Maybe if I can make them go away, I can make them appear, too, _I think, frowning. _Whatever they are, they only seemed to weaken Crepsley on the wall of the hospital._

My stomach whines again. I scowl down at it. _...tied in with my hunger?_

It takes a huge leap of imagination and experimentation to lift my hand towards the sleeping vampire across the glen. I focus, grasping at the thread of emotion in my mind: anger first, which does nothing. Reliving the encounter with the guy at the rest stop makes my heart speed up, but the sensation of fear has faded with time.

I gasp. A beam of light twitched from under the red jacket! It faded before detaching, but it was there!

I withdraw my hand, cradling my mouth with astonishment. The lights are real, and I can control them!

Stretching out my hand again, with purpose, I focus on the most powerful thing in my mind at the moment: my hunger. I throw in some fantasies about delicious blood, and Channelo's pizza, and chocolate, and -

"Whoa!" I startle. The light from under the jacket answered the call of my hunger like lightning, and it streaked towards me before I could react, sinking into my hand.

Shaking with surprise, I examine my hand. No trace of the light's touch, but somehow, my hunger has faded by a fraction.

_I won't take much, _I think, extending my hand again. This time, the lights flow at my will, undulating in the air. It's getting dusky out, but the lights cast no illumination. I suppose that 'light' is just an expression of their nontangible quality, their evanescence. I'm excited at their obedience, but I don't try to speed them up. The average one every five seconds, and it takes a full minute for them to sate me.

When I finally drop my hand to my stomach, I find it no longer complaining of emptiness. "What are you?" I murmur.

Crepsley's groan makes me jump, and I watch him stir in the partial darkness.

"By the gods," he grunts, sitting up, cradling his skull. "I've never slept so terribly."

I swallow before answering, "I'm sorry." Except I'm not sorry. I really don't care if he's tired or not (recap: his blackmail, murder, kidnapping, and extortion of me). And it's hard to feel sympathetic when your 'meal' was at the expense of someone like that. I knew that taking the lights from him made him weak, but a vicious part of me believed he deserved it.

The vampire looks cranky, even after downing the remaining two vials of blood. As he stands, I do the same, brushing leaves off my dress.

"I hope you're ready to go," he grumbles, shrugging into his long red coat.

"Yep," I reply, trying to be as innocent as possible.

He doesn't suspect me. Instead, he turns his back, I bounce into place, and with a grunt he takes off into the night, bursting through the rhododendrons that had sheltered us. I hang on for dear life as he follows Polaris, and we wend our way towards the Cirque du Freak.


	9. Chapter 9

The Cirque suits its name.

There is a wild, bohemian quality to the circle of tents, lights, trailers and vans that is a couple hundred feet across, situated in the middle of a waving grassy meadow. They are interspersed with old, gnarled trees draped with lights and streamers, and with laundry lines strung between. As Crepsley and I cross the old, heavy timber bridge over a low creek and approach, I hear the strains of several kinds of music: tinny Russian, bagpipes, psy-trance. Somewhere, a drummer is pounding away.

"Where is this?" I ask, taking a long stride to come alongside Crepsley.

"The Cirque's spring camping grounds," he replies, the sweep of his long coat brushing my leg. "Don't stare," he warns.

I don't speak again, instead choosing to silently behold the crazy, semi-chaotic array of people.

A few are normal looking: the feathered woman who twitches like a bird; the man who breathes fire into the air. I recognize a few more from the performance as few nights ago: Ramus Twobellies, walking towards what looks like a mess tent; the Wolf Man, slavering away at the bars of his cage on the outskirts; Madam Truska, who eyes the two of us with interest but continues on her way.

I follow Crepsley almost too closely to the center of the camp, so when he stops abruptly to let a pair of men carrying a whole roasted pig on a spit, I bump my nose on his back.

He merely glances over his shoulder and says, "Wait here."

The tent we are stopped in front of has some permanent elements to its construction. It looks well-appointed, with its single potted rosebush and windchime next to a lounge chair. The thing that stand out most is the height of the thing, easily an extra three feet taller than the rest.

I'm guessing it's where Mr. Tall, the ringmaster, lives. Crepsley must be going to clear my stay with the boss of the Cirque.

I feel horribly exposed and awkward, rocking on my feet under the fabric awning. Like a child lost at the state fair. But in all, nobody seems to notice me. They are all starting to file towards the mess tent, from which laughter and merriment emanate.

What are Crepsley and Mr. Tall talking about in there? I try to listen, and come across a sharp spike in my senses.

My hearing... _whoa._

This vampire thing is starting to have its perks! As I close my eyes and filter out the ambient noise, the sound of the two mens' voices surges into clarity.

"Was she a willing turn, Larten?" asks Mr. Tall's methodically accented voice.

I hear the redheaded bastard sigh. "Not completely. She did it to save her brother, and paid a customary price by my race's measurement."

"So she did it with her back to a wall, and isn't pleased," surmises Mr. Tall. It heartens me to hear Crepsley being held accountable, though there is no judgment in the giant's voice. I hear a drink glass land on a table, and the whisper of book pages as he closes his material. "Do you think she will come around?"

"Eventually, we all do," asserts Crepsley.

I snort softly. _Don't be so sure._

"Then she may stay. She will have to pull her weight like everyone else. But she is your responsibility! No snacking on the freaks."

"I intend to start her training tomorrow's eve," assures the vampire. "Do you care to speak to her?"

"Yes, I would like to," says the giant after a beat. "Welcome her, and such."

"Do you require me further?"

"No. Thank you for your honesty and time."

"You and I have nothing but time, friend."

So Mr. Tall is immortal, too? He's clearly not a vampire, though. I reel back on my senses before a closer Crepsley blares into my ears. "Mr. Tall would like a word," says the vampire, stepping out of the tent flap and gesturing me through it.

"Super," I reply. I have a bout of nerves. Mr. Tall seems nice, but what does he need to talk to me about?

"I'll be in the mess tent," says my mentor, letting the tent flap fall. I hear his footfalls fade.

The inside of the tent is eclectic, to say the least. There are old things like maps, a marionette, and photos on the walls. There is a Mother-In-Law's tongue in a pot in the corner, and a small kitchenette, and a curtained off area that the foot of a ultra-long bed sticks out of. Everything about the place is tailored to the height of the resident: the chair backs, the ceiling, the chandelier casting good light, the footstool's distance from the chair, the bookshelf, the handsome desk.

"Come in, Miss Adrienne, was it?" asks the giant, from the other side of the tent. He is bent over deeply to fiddle with something on the table before him. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

There is a second, matching wingback across the rug from the one with a drink glass and book, so I ease myself into it. So this is going to be a long conversation?

"No, it is not," says the giant. When turns around, and he holds a tray with a teapot and two cups, with accompaniments like sugar and cream.

I stiffen, mouth falling open. "You're... you're psychic?!"

"I can read and control minds, yes," replies the gangly man, resting the tray on his knees and starting to prepare the cups. "One lump or two?"

"B-but... that's impossible," I try to rationalize my logic as he singly sugars the cup in lieu of my reply. "What am I thinking of, right now?"

"Larten's hair. Your first pet fish. Your first boyfriend. Your backpack. Ah, yes, let me return that to you," he interrupts my gaping to reach behind his chair, handing the bag over to me. "Safe and sound."

I clutch the bag to my body, eyeing him. "Isn't there, like, a mind privacy code or something?"

"I will not peruse your thoughts unless you ask me, Adrienne," he says, handing me a steaming, Asian-style cup with sakura blossoms on it. "It is unethical and untrustworthy. Hardly a way to run a business."

Taking the cup carefully, my nervousness towards fine china looms. My nose detects the scents of lemon balm, holy basil, and rosemary. The scents seem much stronger than before my turning. A fortifying sip later, I find I can file this newest revelation under 'Well, Duh, They're Freaks!'. I take another sip. The world seems to calm, and I with it. Tea is what I usually treat menstrual cramps and exam stress with. I suppose the last three days have been a mix of both sentiments.

"Better?" asks the ringmaster, sipping his own cup.

Wrapped around my backpack, in this comfortable chair, with a delicious hot drink soothing my frazzled brain, I find that I am, indeed, better. "Yes."

"Good." Mr. Tall takes another few sips and lets the quiet stretch, but not pressingly so. After my cup is half-gone, he puts his down and says, "Welcome to the Cirque du Freak, Adrienne. Although I wish the circumstances were better, it is a joyous occasion to add to our ranks a half-vampire."

"I don't see how," I mutter into my tea.

"Differences are celebrated here," Mr. Tall explains. "We make a living and are rewarded by a profession, both of which would ordinarily be beyond the reach of most of us."

"About that," I pipe up, fingering the edge of my teacup. "I'm already Crep - erm, Mr. Crepsley's assistant. I know I will need to earn my keep here." A reasonable assumption, even without overhearing it. "What would you have me do?"

"That is entirely up to you," he replies, hefting his cup in a long-fingered hand. "Everything runs on a schedule, so you will have time to contribute to a multitude of positions, or pick just one. So long as you contribute in some way, your presence will not be questioned."

Nodding in understanding, I take another sip. This place is, for all intents and purposes, my new home. I need to step correct to keep it that way. "I heard you talking to Mr. Crepsley about me 'snacking'." At the querying tick of her eyebrow, I rush on. "I want you to know that won't be a problem. I'm in control, like Crepsley."

He smiles. "Overheard that, did you? Vampirism agrees with you."

"I wouldn't say that," I murmur, fiddling with a strap. "I'm trying to fight the more _sanguine aspects_ of my nature, if you catch my drift."

"I have no doubt that you wish no harm on your fellow freak." He pauses, searching my face. "Ah, not comfortable with the title yet, hmm? Your fellow man, then. I know you are upset with Larten about the circumstances of your transformation."

A derisive snort leaves my mouth. "Did you read my mind to find that?"

"It is written on your face," he replies. Leaning forward in his chair and tabling the tray, he laces his fingers together. "I would urge you to not judge him too harshly. The vampiric race operates on principles that might be construed as malicious. "

"I'll say."

"But their traditions, sense of honor, and moral uprightness are strong. You are now a part of that of that."

It all sounds so nice, but I want to fling my cup against a wall all the same. "I've had to leave everything I've ever known, for everything I never have. I've had to devastate the people closest to me," I manage around my aching throat. "Forgive me for not cutting the man responsible any slack."

"You will come to terms with it," says Mr. Tall, placing a bony hand over mine. "Time heals all wounds. In the meantime, that man has your best interests at heart. Let him instruct you, and heed his teaching. It is only logical, for you are of the same blood now."

The tea is making me think clearly, and dialing back my rampant emotions. Mr. Tall is right: logically, I'm stuck with this lot. Although I'm in no hurry to resign myself to it, I will have to walk that path anyway. I might as well learn what I can about my new nature.

"If you need someone to talk to, my door is always open, and my counsel is private," continues the giant, withdrawing his hand. "Now, I believe there was talk of a Ramus specialty tonight: roasted pig."

With the calming of my nerves comes a resurgence of my appetite. I take the hint and hand him back my delicate cup. "Thank you, Mr. Tall," I say. He's done nothing to harm me, and offered to be in my corner. The man has earned the respect due his title. "I may have to take you up on the counsel thing."

"Anytime."

I hesitate near the door. "Mr. Tall?"

"Yes?"

"How are you immortal? I thought only vampires were."

His wry chuckle makes me turn around. "Because my father is. Good evening, Miss Adrienne."

The bizarre reply does little to assuage the crawl over my skin at his words. The hints I keep glimpsing of this huge, alien world I now belong to scare me like the shadows on the bedroom wall as a child.

I feel like I'm starting from scratch again. Literally, from childhood. The world is all new and strange, and I have to figure everything out again.

"Well, a growling stomach is clearly hunger," I murmur, hefting my backpack to my shoulder. "Not the kind satisfied with lights."

Striding across the empty camp towards the mess tent bulging with people, I find my steps slowing, slowing... and stopping.

They all sound so happy in there. Like a big family during Christmas.

A family I'm not a part of.

Tears spring to my eyes, unbidden. I just _left_ my real family: I don't want a second one.

My ripped up heart insists I not go into that tent.

The semi-see-through quality of the tent makes it easy to find Crepsley's silhouette of wild curls and token glass of liquid. I murmur his name from the other side of the fabric, and he stands to make his way outside to meet me at the entrance. "What is it?" he asks, clearly in better spirits with a glass of that red stuff in him.

"I just want to turn in for the night. I'm beat," I lie.

"We haven't decided where you'll stay - "

"I'll sleep in the woods for now. I'm prepared," I thumb at my backpack.

He's back in his safe zone, relaxed, and slightly buzzed with blood. He lets it go. "Vampirism agrees with you already," he says, sounding slightly proud.

The exact words of Mr. Tall, ironically. To avoid dragging out this conversation, I don't argue.

The vampire goes back into the tent with a, "Pleasant dreams."

I make my way outside the circle of lights, tents, and trailers, leaving a trampled trail across the meadow to the edge of the woods beyond. My old sleep schedule is catching up to me, despite (and possibly because of) the last few nights.

Pitching my little two-person tent takes some remembering, and a flashlight stuck in a tree crotch. But when I unfurl my bedroll, I find my eyes drooping like they're weighted with all my problems.

I'm out before my head hits the pillow.


End file.
